


Champion

by softestpunk



Series: Champion [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Forced Proximity, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, bed sharing, canon-level blood and violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-07-29 22:25:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16273607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: “Act as my champion in the upcoming tournament of the Great Sun,” Emhyr pronounced slowly, as though Geralt was a particularly stupid child. “Some part of this is confusing to you?”“Why?” Geralt asked, and even he could hear the hopelessness in his voice. He wasn’t expecting to get a clear answer out of Emhyr. No one ever did.Geralt gets himself talked into spending five days alone with Emhyr while other people try to make him bleed for points. They succeed a lot.And then, Emhyr kisses him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is 90% finished and I know how it ends but the only way it's ever getting to 100% is through the magic of accountability so strap yourselves in, folks.

Geralt folded his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes to look at Emhyr as though that would help him see the inner workings of the other man’s mind. “You want me to _what_?”

“Act as my champion in the upcoming tournament of the Great Sun,” Emhyr pronounced slowly, as though Geralt was a particularly stupid child. “Some part of this is confusing to you?”

“Why?” Geralt asked, and even _he_ could hear the hopelessness in his voice. He wasn’t expecting to get a clear answer out of Emhyr. No one ever did.

The man in question gazed at him for a few moments, then stood from his desk to look out the window behind it, turning his back on Geralt.

With no guards in the room, that almost felt like an insult. Emhyr was so _sure_ Geralt wouldn’t harm him.

Unfortunately, he was also right. Annoyed as Geralt was, he didn’t actually feel the need to murder Emhyr in cold blood.

Yet.

“The tournament is an ancient tradition,” Emhyr began. “Upheaval has prevented it from going ahead in recent years, but now that it is time to… pacify the population, it really must be done.”

“That’s not even a distant relative of the answer to my question,” Geralt said, dismay sneaking into his tone. This was going to be one of _those_ conversations.

“Patience,” Emhyr said, and Geralt could just _hear_ the smirk in his voice. He knew Geralt was too intrigued to walk away, so now he was going to turn this into a whole theatrical production.

Geralt hated royalty. Emhyr was probably the most sane ruler he’d ever met, and even _he_ was a complete pain in the ass.

“People come from all over the empire to compete,” he continued. “The title of tournament champion is highly coveted, and opens many doors even for those who would otherwise have no path into society.”

“I’m guessing you’re not particularly interested in granting me social legitimacy,” Geralt said.

“No,” Emhyr agreed. “Indeed, I imagine the very idea makes you uncomfortable.”

He wasn’t wrong. Geralt felt no need _at all_ to have doors opened to him in Nilfgaardian society. And even if he did, he was on first-name terms with the emperor. Which made him practically unique.

“The problem is this: the tournament champion, traditionally, chooses their own reward. There are no limits placed on what they might ask for. As I currently have an heir who is of marriageable age and not otherwise engaged, there is a very real risk that the champion would ask for her hand. When Cirilla refused, it would cause an uproar.”

Geralt smirked at Emhyr saying _when_ rather than _if_. Obviously, he’d gotten to know Ciri pretty well.

“Still not getting why you want me to compete,” Geralt said.

“Not simply compete,” Emhyr responded. “I expect you to win. And thus remove the risk that Cirilla will be forced to refuse you.”

“Okay, let me get this straight,” Geralt began. “You want me to win this tournament, in your name, just so Ciri doesn’t have to say no to whoever wins?”

“Yes,” Emhyr said. “You have grasped the general principle of the request.”

“And I get whatever I want as a reward?” Geralt asked.

“Anything within my power,” Emhyr responded, suddenly suspicious. “Why do you ask?”

Geralt shrugged. “You’ll find out when I win.”

Geralt would _also_ find out when he won, he hoped, because right now he was just trying to sound mysterious for the sake of making Emhyr’s life slightly more difficult.

Emhyr looked at him carefully. “You will do it, then?”

“Sure, why not?” Geralt said. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

If the Nilfgaardian tournament was anything like the Toussaint one--and why shouldn’t it have been?--then this would be easy.

***

The Nilfgaardian tournament, Geralt was beginning to realise, was nothing like the Toussaint one at all.

In Toussaint, for example, he hadn’t had to stand around in his underwear while an official weighed and measured him, and Emhyr translated unnecessarily for him.

“I speak Nilfgaardian just fine,” Geralt said, frustrated by being told yet again what the official sizing him up was saying right after she’d said it.

“I have heard you speak Nilfgaardian,” Emhyr said. “And I regret to inform you that you do _not_. You cobble it together like a toddler and everyone is either too polite or too afraid of you to say anything.”

Geralt stared open-mouthed at Emhyr, indignation and embarrassment fighting for supremacy in his throat.

He wanted to say that Emhyr’s grasp of Northern dialects left a lot to be desired, too, but it _didn’t_. Emhyr didn’t even have an accent when he spoke.

“I guess I shouldn’t expect you to be polite,” Geralt retorted, hissing as the matronly official’s cold fingertips made contact with his shoulders.

She made an unmistakable sound of approval, which left Geralt feeling even _more_ like he was livestock being assessed for sale.

“Politeness would be far less useful to you than honesty,” Emhyr said, clearly not even slightly chastised by the remark. Why should he have been? Emperors didn’t have to be polite, and it wasn’t as though Geralt had ever showed him any politeness, either.

“He is within acceptable limits,” the official said. Or at least, Geralt _thought_ that was what she said.

Emhyr had succeeded in making him feel self-conscious about his language skills now.

“Thank you,” Emhyr responded. “Have the appropriate papers sent to me, please.”

The official nodded once, and then took her leave with long, confident strides that implied her authority, in this context, was great enough to overrule Emhyr’s.

Geralt was learning, quickly, that things were very different in the south in a thousand subtle ways. They had _rules_. Rules that even the emperor couldn’t break.

“What would have disqualified me?” Geralt asked.

“If you were too tall or too large, you would have an unfair advantage. This tournament is a test of skill and resolve, not a test of natural gifts. Thankfully, you are sufficiently average,” Emhyr responded, in his usual way of making a simple statement of fact sound like a cutting insult.

“You must not use magic,” Emhyr continued. “Or you will face immediate disqualification.”

“What _is_ this tournament?” Geralt asked, realising that he really should have wondered sooner.

“Unarmed combat,” Emhyr said.

Geralt blinked at him.

“You are hailed across the north as a champion fist fighter,” Emhyr said. “I trust this will not present a problem?”

In the back of his mind, Geralt knew that Emhyr spied on… just about everyone, himself included. Hell, he even had good _reason_ to spy on Geralt.

It was still a surprise anytime Emhyr revealed just how much he knew.

“The height of cultural refinement in Nilfgaard is _unarmed combat_?” Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t recall ever suggesting this contest was in any way refined. I see you’ve failed to understand the way in which it is _for the people_ ,” Emhyr said, and Geralt felt like an idiot all over again, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

Emhyr just had a way of doing that, he supposed.

“The _people_ of Nilfgaard are very much like the people anywhere else,” Emhyr continued. “The point is _spectacle_. They want to see you bleed.”

“This will come as a surprise to you, but I don't actually like bleeding,” Geralt said.

“Then you will have to make your opponents bleed. That _is_ the preferred method of gaining points. First blood is worth three points. Knocking an opponent out cold two, and forcing surrender also two. Killing your opponent is worth one point, in the interest of discouraging it.”

“Shouldn’t there be a penalty if you're trying to avoid it?” Geralt asked.

“I believe I did say _discourage_ ,” Emhyr continued. “Your imprecision with language extends to your own tongue, I see. It is not against the rules. It is merely considered unsporting.”

Geralt blinked at Emhyr, not sure whether to address the insult about his grasp of language or the part where killing people was at worst _unsporting_ first.

“People die during this tournament, Geralt,” Emhyr said, suddenly deadly serious. “Either during a match or after it, if their wounds are serious or they have chosen their partner poorly.”

“Partner?” Geralt asked, perking up. “I want--”

“Cirilla, I know,” Emhyr said. “But unfortunately, you will have to make do with me, since you are my champion. It will be my responsibility to withdraw you from a fight should the necessity arise, and to tend to your wounds. For the duration of the tournament, you will not be allowed to have contact with anyone but myself and tournament officials, and none of them may help you. You will not be able to send for anything, either.”

Geralt stared at Emhyr. Why hadn't he mentioned this sooner?

Well, that wasn't really a mystery. If he’d opened with “hey, Geralt, wanna spend several days stuck with only me for company?” then Geralt would have said no immediately.

But now he was almost committed. Not quite. If he _really_ thought the risk was too great, he could still walk away. But not without people knowing he had. Not without _Emhyr_ knowing he had.

Which he wasn’t about to allow.

Emhyr had timed this particular revelation perfectly.

“If there’s anything critical I should know about witcher physiology, now would be the optimal moment to share it.”

“Uh…” Geralt wasn't sure how to answer that, exactly. “Think of me as an unusually hard to kill human?”

“I already do,” Emhyr said, which shouldn't really have come as a surprise. “In this context, do you anticipate having any requirements that would set you apart from another competitor? Because it is my responsibility to see to them.”

“I…” Geralt scratched the back of his neck, unsure he wanted to bare anything about himself to Emhyr.

Well, anything more than he already had today, which was everything except the space between his navel and his knees.

Couldn't they have this conversation when Geralt was fully clothed?

“I eat more than most people,” Geralt said, figuring that might actually come up. “A lot more.”

Emhyr nodded. “Anything else? Anything at all?”

Belatedly, Geralt realised that while Emhyr was asking mostly for practical reasons, he was also _curious_.

“What kind of thing are you imagining?” he asked, Emhyr’s curiosity apparently infectious.

“I have no preconceived notions about how witchers might differ from ordinary people, aside from the obvious outward ways. But I am aware that you _do_ differ.”

“I don't think there's anything else relevant to this situation,” Geralt said, wondering if he should be touched by Emhyr’s concern or worried that he was gathering intelligence.

“Very well. If you’d care to dress, I imagine your entry paperwork is waiting for us.”

Geralt opened his mouth to object to the way Emhyr had said _if you’d care to dress_ like he hadn't personally ordered him to strip ten minutes ago, but thought better of it. He’d store up that impulse for later when he could get a little more mileage out of paying him back.

***

Ciri hugged Geralt once he got away from signing up to five days of being stuck with Emhyr _and_ getting the crap beat out of him, so at least it felt like the right decision.

“You will be careful, won’t you? People die in these tournaments.”

“I'll be fine,” Geralt reassured. He expected Emhyr to underestimate him--hell, he _preferred_ it, because that gave him a narrow advantage if worst came to worst.

But Ciri should have known that a few bareknuckle rounds wasn't anything difficult for Geralt. Even if he was a little older and more tired than he had been when she was a little girl.

“I know,” Ciri said. “I know you will be, I just… worry. Not least of all because you're putting Emhyr in charge of patching you up.”

Geralt chuckled. “I'm putting myself in charge of it,” he said. “Worry about whether or not I'm gonna strangle him.”

“Please don't,” Ciri said. “I'm starting to grow quite fond of him. He can be very charming when he wants to be.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. He was sure Emhyr _could_ be charming, but he was surprised Ciri would fall for it.

“Don't look at me like that,” Ciri said. “I know what he is. But I also know what he is _not_. You and he have more in common than you realise.”

“I can't believe you're insulting me like this,” Geralt joked.

“It’s not an insult,” Ciri responded. “You ought to take the opportunity to get to know him a little better. He might surprise you.”

Emhyr never _stopped_ surprising Geralt. That was half the problem with him.

“Gotta say, I’d rather he was predictable,” Geralt said.

Ciri shrugged. “He is, in his way. All people are. His mind simply doesn’t work like other men.”

“You’ve really been spending a lot of time with him, huh?” Geralt asked.

Ciri sighed. “I remember a man who was warm and wise. Who played with me and carried me on his shoulders and taught me things about the world, even if I was too young to really understand them. And I remember you doing a lot of the same things a little later. So…”

“So we’re not so different. Got it,” Geralt said. “I’m better-looking.”

Ciri blinked at him. “I have absolutely no opinion on that.”

Geralt snorted. “So much for loyalty,” he teased. “But he’s doing this for you, kind of. That gets him a little benefit of the doubt.”

“Good,” Ciri said. “I’d like the two of you to get along.”

“We’ll see,” Geralt promised, though silently he thought Emhyr would be on the hook for most of the _getting along_.

***

“Are you sure this is entirely necessary?” Geralt asked. Emhyr assumed this was because he was constitutionally incapable of simply accepting what he was told.

A useful skill in his line of work, probably. Emhyr wanted to begrudge him his natural tendency to push back against everything, but deep down, some part of him enjoyed it. It wasn't often he met serious opposition from someone he could trust _not_ to at least consider having him assassinated later.

Emhyr rarely got the opportunity to indulge in this kind of perfectly harmless battle of wills. As an added bonus, Geralt was stubborn, but Emhyr had the ultimate weapon at his disposal: Cirilla’s continued happiness and safety, which currently hinged on Geralt’s cooperation.

So not only could he indulge, but he was, eventually, guaranteed to win. Emhyr liked to think he knew himself well enough to know that winning was a pleasure in and of itself.

Besides, having so clearly marked the witcher as _his_ , at least for the duration of the tournament, gave him a thrill of satisfaction.

One he wasn't planning on examining too closely. There were limits on the usefulness of self-knowledge, after all.

“Unless you’d prefer to fight naked,” Emhyr said, nodding to the loose-cut trousers in the Imperial colours Geralt was wearing.

“I'm talking about this,” Geralt said, pointing to the practically invisible magic brand on one side of his chest.

“Every competitor must be marked with the symbol of the house they’re competing in the name of.”

Emhyr did _not_ say that in his opinion it suited him, or that it was almost lost among Geralt’s network of scars in any case, but he did _think_ both of those things.

“It'll come off, right?” Geralt asked.

He had already been told it would, and was undoubtedly only asking again in the interest of making himself a nuisance.

“The moment the tournament is finished,” Emhyr responded. “I am not eager to be legally responsible for you after that point.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “This makes you legally responsible for me?”

“It makes you a member of my house,” Emhyr said. “And as the head of it, I am ultimately responsible for your behaviour, especially as you hold no title of your own.”

“So if I killed you now…”

“I would be responsible for my own murder,” Emhyr said. “Although I cannot imagine a scenario in which the public would _not_ hold me accountable for my own murder. The powerful are always guilty of something.”

Geralt snorted. Emhyr decided to let the insult pass.

He was, after all, responsible for a great many things that might have caused another man guilt. Personally, he’d never lost sleep over any of them.

“Of all the people I have regular contact with, it may either please or distress you to know that you are the only one I don't think could be moved to murder me,” Emhyr said, keeping his tone to the one used for comments on the weather or the latest ladies’ fashion.

“Not,” he added, “without the threat of serious and immediate harm to yourself or someone you love, in any case. None of whom I bear any particular grudges against.”

Geralt stared at him slack-jawed, which was approximately the response Emhyr had expected.

“Later today we will both be ferried to the tournament grounds by carriage. You should make any final preparations before then.”

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that and the no-magic rule,” Geralt said. “Because there are a few things I’d normally bring with me, but I'm not sure which ones would count as magic.”

“Alchemical solutions?” Emhyr asked.

He _almost_ explained that alchemy was firmly considered a trade in Nilfgaard, since anyone sufficiently knowledgeable--and brave--could attempt it. However, he knew two things:

Firstly, he would never get a better chance to learn the closely-guarded secrets of witcher potions.

Secondly, as he didn't _know_ the secrets, he couldn't rule out magic involvement. And if magic was later detected by a competitor, then all of this was for nothing.

“Present what you mean to take with you to one of the court mages. I'll have them sort through it for anything that might not be allowed.”

Geralt nodded, apparently not suspicious or concerned at all about Emhyr’s motives. Of course he wasn't.

For all his years of experience, for everything he’d seen, Geralt still had a kind of innocence about him.

Or rather, a painful kind of quiet optimism that the world was generally good, and people could generally be trusted.

If he had simply _asked_ Geralt for every formula he knew, he would undoubtedly have provided them as long as he was offered sufficient motivation, which in his case would be a few days of rest and a decent meal. Perhaps a handful of coin for his trouble, which he would accept only because it was useful, and not because he had any desire for wealth.

Geralt was not a man who understood the value of being the only one to possess knowledge, beyond a very basic grasp of tactical intelligence.

And yet Emhyr had no plans to use this knowledge against him, and in fact couldn't see a way to do so. So perhaps Geralt was the smarter man, here, unconcerned by things that would simply never affect him.

“Okay,” Geralt agreed without even the faintest trace of suspicion. “Can I at least wear a shirt on the way there?”

“I would insist upon it,” Emhyr said reflexively, though some part of him hoped Geralt would choose one with a neckline wide enough to reveal at least part of the brand.

He should not have been as eager about that as he was, and he knew it, but the feeling persisted, a tightness in the pit of his stomach. Another thing Emhyr was not eager to examine too closely.

“Great. Anything else?” Geralt asked, obviously not impressed by his current circumstances.

He could sulk all he liked, as long as he held up his end of the bargain.

“You may go,” Emhyr said, perfectly aware that he had almost no control over when Geralt stayed or left, but feeling the need to assert his authority anyway. Or at least adhere to the script that he was accustomed to, for the sake of appearances.

Secretly, he wouldn’t have objected to doing away with it entirely. Geralt was a novelty because he refused to acknowledge Emhyr’s authority, even when forced to come to heel. Even _then_ , Emhyr didn’t fool himself to think that he could bring Geralt of Rivia to him if the witcher truly wished to avoid appearing.

No. Theirs was a relationship of mutual consent, which was something Emhyr sorely lacked in his life. People were afraid of him. People were beholden to him. Anyone who _did_ seek to know him voluntarily tended to want something, often something he could not or would not give.

He did not have _friends_. He loved Cirilla, honestly, and with all his heart, but she was still warming to him and he knew that it would be a long time before the trust between them grew enough to consider her a confidante.

Geralt was decidedly not his friend, but he was, in ways that almost no one else was, Emhyr’s _peer_. Not because he ruled a kingdom or wielded any great power--though he could have, if he turned his mind to it, and he would have been a king like Foltest had been, gifted the undying love and loyalty of his people.

No, the thing that made Geralt a man who Emhyr thought of, secretly, as his equal, was that he was indomitable. There was no force known to man that could cause Geralt to yield, short of his own personal code. He may _lose_ , but he would always go down fighting. He would die that way, too, one day.

Emhyr expected much the same for himself.

Geralt swept into a deep, mocking bow that managed to be vastly more impertinent than not doing so could ever hope to be, and turned to leave.

The next five days would prove to be a challenge, Emhyr suspected.

He always enjoyed a challenge.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: this is bullshit, this is all bullshit
> 
> Emhyr: I have no idea why you expected otherwise??

“These are all acceptable,” Emhyr said as he handed Geralt the pouch of assorted potions and salves the court mages had been checking. “Though I am informed that most of them are quite dangerous poisons.”

Geralt shrugged. “All medicines are poisons if you take enough,” he said. “Witchers can handle stronger solutions. Our bodies can process and use things that’d be toxic to normal humans.”

The carriage rattled along the beautifully-paved roads of the Nilfgaardian capital at a leisurely pace, heading, Geralt assumed, for the tournament grounds.

Emhyr had told him to expect to travel for a little over an hour, which wasn’t too bad, all things considered. On foot, getting out of the city would have taken that long. Nilfgaard was huge.

“Harder to kill,” Emhyr murmured, repeating what Geralt had said about himself this morning.

“Exactly,” Geralt agreed.

“Nordlings are afraid of witchers,” Emhyr added after a moment. “Superstitious. Distrustful. I could never entirely understand _why_ , even before I met one.”

Geralt wasn’t sure whether Emhyr was looking for insight, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to provide it. “There’s a whole book about how awful we are.”

“I have read it,” Emhyr responded. “As propaganda goes, it was heavy-handed for my tastes. I would have tended toward a subtler approach.”

Snorting, Geralt took a moment to look out of the carriage window at the houses going past. They’d gotten away from the centre of the city now, into the kind of district merchants and scholars inhabited.

The smell was the thing Geralt noticed most about Nilfgaard. In the sense that there wasn’t much of one to speak of. He supposed people who lived in Northern cities got used to it, but his sense of smell didn’t allow him to do the same.

On the other hand, the increased noise levels meant that the assault on Geralt’s senses was approximately the same.

At least the carriage blocked most of it out.

“People don’t like other people being different,” Geralt said. “And witchers are pretty different.”

“You more than most,” Emhyr added.

“I’m flattered you noticed.”

This time, it was Emhyr’s turn to snort. “Some people _would_ be flattered, you know. Some people would be thrilled that I was even aware of their existence.”

“You have a habit of making my life harder than it needs to be,” Geralt said, but without any heat.

“And yet you continue to come to my aid,” Emhyr said. “Curious.”

“If Ciri’s my destiny, then you’re a part of that,” Geralt responded simply. “You’re where it all started, and I guess you and I aren’t quite done yet. I’ve accepted that.”

Emhyr hummed thoughtfully, looking out the opposite carriage window.

For a long few moments, Geralt thought that was an end to the conversation. Just as he was about to close his eyes for a quick nap, though, Emhyr drew a breath to speak again.

“I have not always been grateful for your role in my life,” he began. “But on balance, I am now.”

“Thanks, I think,” Geralt said, unsure what else to say.

Coming from Emhyr, this felt like an emotional outburst.

This time, he really did fall silent, and there was a finality to it that told Geralt the subject was closed. He could have pushed, and the urge to do it almost won out, but he didn’t really know _how_. If he said anything else, it’d only be to provoke Emhyr.

Which seemed a little unfair, considering the circumstances.

Besides, he’d promised Ciri that he’d at least _try_ to get along.

***

For a man who spent much of his life sleeping by the side of the road on little more than a blanket, Geralt was inordinately upset about the fact that their tent only contained one bed.

If Emhyr hadn’t been accustomed to Geralt’s tendency to complain for the sake of it, he might have been insulted that the idea of sharing seemed so repulsive to him.

“Why didn’t you _warn_ me?” Geralt asked, indignant.

Emhyr looked at him. The look would have made other men cower, though he suspected it would only serve, in this case, to make Geralt all the more belligerent.

“A warning would not have changed the situation,” he said simply. “Unless after everything, _this_ is where Geralt of Rivia’s courage fails him. I would point out that I am yet to harm a bedmate.”

“Doesn’t mean you won’t,” Geralt mumbled, the heat gone from his objections.

Emhyr took the victory, such as it was. Causing Geralt to back down, even over something as trivial as this, was no small feat.

“Since our interests are currently so neatly aligned, I would have to be in a particularly self-destructive mood to try it,” Emhyr said. “Not least of all because I am unlikely to succeed.”

Indeed, the one reason he was comfortable with the plan of staying out here, away from the relative safety of the palace, at a time when public sentiment was not entirely on his side, was that Geralt _would_ be sleeping in the same bed. Should anyone think to take advantage of his comparative vulnerability, Geralt would put a stop to it.

Not that he planned on revealing this to the witcher in question. Aside from his general disinterest in the intricacies of politics, it would do Emhyr no favours to admit that he associated Geralt with safety.

Which was ridiculous emotional reasoning from a time long past, and probably not even true anymore.

Although, the idea that Geralt considered him part of his _destiny_ , a concept that seemed very dear to witchers, was still turning around in the back of Emhyr’s mind. To say it had been a surprise severely understated the shock of hearing it.

“You’re damned right,” Geralt said, a toothless warning spoken, as far as Emhyr could tell, mostly for the sake of saying it.

“I often am,” Emhyr responded absently, pacing the room in the interest of working some feeling back into his lower half. Carriage travel was _not_ his preferred method of getting from point to point; the need for people to see him participating in this the was only reason he’d endured it.

Given the choice, Emhyr would always have travelled on horseback. Horses did not shudder over every inch of slightly uneven ground.

“Okay, but _why_ is there only one bed?” Geralt asked, which was the question he should have asked in the first place.

It was also a question that Emhyr had been hoping, clearly in vain, that he would not think of. The chance had been slim--Geralt was a curious man by nature, and not one to leave a puzzle unsolved.

“This particular tournament, as you can imagine, is steeped in meaning and tradition that goes well beyond the simple act of hitting someone until they yield or die,” Emhyr said. “One such tradition that has sprung from the requirement that a competitor must share living quarters with their sponsor is that it is often used by young lovers, separated by class, to steal some time together. I understand it’s all very romantic.”

Emhyr _did_ , actually, understand the romance of putting one’s life on the line for the chance to be with someone they loved, and if Geralt saw him as even remotely human, then _he_ knew that, as well. He simply didn’t want to end up discussing it.

“We’re not lovers,” Geralt pointed out. “Or young, for that matter.”

“Obviously not,” Emhyr said. “And naturally, it would be a great breach of etiquette for anyone to speculate that this was the case. Which is precisely why they will, and are, and likely have convinced themselves that we _must_ be. An impression I have no intention of correcting.”

“ _Why_?” Geralt asked, staring openly at Emhyr as though he’d sprouted a second head.

“Because in the post-war years, my chances of survival--and therefore Cirilla’s chances of survival--increase greatly if the populace sees me as a human being instead of a warmongering tyrant.”

“I hate to break this to you,” Geralt began. “But you’re kind of on the warmongering tyrant end of the scale.”

“This is not news to me,” Emhyr said. “If you expect me to apologise, you will be severely disappointed. Everything I have done, I have done for the safety and prosperity of Nilfgaard. I am not infallible, but my intentions have always been to protect my people. This, naturally, has caused me to accumulate enemies.”

“You don’t say.”

Emhyr rolled his eyes, something he seemed to do more in Geralt’s presence than in the rest of his life combined. “Well if you _will_ ask a stupid question, the answer must be similarly dull and obvious.”

“I don’t see what about this makes you seem more human,” Geralt said, which only revealed that he hadn’t thought about it at all.

“To the people out there, you are the man who rescued my only daughter. They know very little else about you and have only heard your name spoken in whispers and stories. They know the princess--who they adore--loves you. You _must_ be a good person of strong character.”

“Following so far,” Geralt said.

Emhyr sighed at Geralt’s complete inability to grasp the finer points of social manipulation.

“If they see me hopelessly in love with someone who they _know_ to be above reproach, and they assume that affection is returned, then I must be _worthy_ of that. And then there is the tragedy of it. We are separated by our stations and allowed only this brief window of time together.”

“But that’s horseshit,” Geralt pointed out.

“Of course,” Emhyr said simply. “Which is what makes it such a compelling story. To be clear, I am asking precisely nothing of you beyond what we have already agreed. The people will believe what they wish to believe, and _that_ is what they wish to believe.”

The bed in question creaked under Geralt’s weight as he sat heavily on it. “I asked, I guess.”

“You did,” Emhyr agreed, by which he meant: this is your own fault.

A grunt from Geralt suggested he understood perfectly.

“You may wish to see the layout of the arena,” Emhyr said. “I believe you first match is third in today’s lineup.”

“Any idea who I’m up against?” Geralt asked.

“I have a name, but no particulars. I haven’t met her.”

“ _Her?_ ”

Emhyr fixed Geralt with yet another look that would have made grown men cower. “Her,” he repeated. “I trust this will not be a problem?”

Geralt shifted his weight awkwardly, and his thoughts were so clearly written on his face that he may as well have spoken them aloud.

On the one hand, Geralt was a man of the world, more than experienced enough to know that women were as formidable warriors as their male counterparts, frequently moreso. He even knew multiple women who could, if moved to do so, have ended his existence with very little effort.

On the other, his instinct was not to fight one unprovoked, and he saw the likes of a tournament as _unprovoked_.

“No problem,” Geralt said after a few moments of thought. He heaved himself off the bed as though it was a monumental task, stretching his arms high above his head, his fingers threaded together so the knuckles cracked.

Emhyr forced himself to look away before Geralt caught him staring, and then wondered why he _had_ been.

“I’ll go check things out,” Geralt said, pulling the flap of the tent aside and ducking under it, disappearing on the other side of the thick, brightly-coloured linen.

He’d taken the revelations of the afternoon much better than Emhyr had expected, all considered.

***

“I can’t believe she _bit_ me.” Geralt hissed as Emhyr dabbed at the still-bleeding bite on his shoulder, a wound that was in too awkward a position for him to competently treat it himself.

Any reservations he’d had about fighting a woman had evaporated ten seconds into the match when she’d sunk her teeth into him so hard that Geralt had actually felt dizzy from the unexpected pain for a moment.

He hadn’t even realised biting was _allowed_ , though he remembered now that the rule was _no weapons_.

A tiny part of him wondered if, maybe, his grasp of Nilfgaardian was to blame for not quite understanding what that meant. Perhaps the words used _implied_ that biting your opponent was fine.

Not that he was about to ask.

“And in doing so, ended the match with more points than you despite ultimately yielding,” Emhyr responded, tutting as he wiped blood away from Geralt’s shoulder with surprisingly gentle hands and a damp cloth.

When he’d admitted that he needed help, Geralt had expected Emhyr’s touch to be cursory, rough, inexperienced. He wasn’t a man who had any reason to personally tend to anyone, so why should he even know how?

“I’ll make up the difference,” Geralt grumbled.

“I know,” Emhyr said. “I merely wish you to understand your mistake. It is not enough to win. You must win _well_.”

“And not hesitate,” Geralt responded. He knew where he’d gone wrong. For just a few seconds, he’d looked at the slight woman who was _definitely_ some part elf across from him, and he just hadn’t wanted to hurt her.

She clearly hadn’t felt the same way about him.

That wasn’t a mistake he’d make twice.

“Would you like me to stitch this?” Emhyr asked, apparently not about to berate Geralt for being an idiot. Which, honestly, was a surprise.

“ _No_ ,” Geralt said automatically, horror at the _idea_ of letting Emhyr near him with a needle and thread making his stomach go cold.

“I do know how,” Emhyr responded, and maybe it was Geralt’s imagination, but he sounded a little insulted.

It was enough to make Geralt feel guilty over his lack of trust. Which was _ridiculous_ , because even Emhyr knew better than to expect people to trust him.

“I’d only rip the stitches out next match,” he said, which was true in any case. Besides, he could feel the wound starting to heal.

“Remarkable,” Emhyr murmured, pausing in what he was doing to trace the outline of the wound on Geralt’s skin. “I believe if I watched for long enough, I might actually be able to _see_ this healing.”

“Probably,” Geralt agreed. “Can I eat something now?”

“Of course,” Emhyr said after a moment of silence, as though he’d had to shake himself out of staring. “By all means, since there seems to be nothing else I can do here.”

Geralt rose from the chair Emhyr had ushered him into the moment they’d gotten back and headed for the long table that took up almost the entire length of the tent wall, covered in fruits, nuts, breads, cheeses, and preserved meats. He grabbed a handful of nuts, knowing from experience that they were his best option for an energy boost if he was going into another fight in an hour or so.

The sensation of being watched lingered as he chewed and swallowed his first mouthful. When he turned around, Emhyr was looking at him carefully.

“I suppose it requires more energy to heal so quickly,” he said.

“Pretty much.” Geralt shrugged. “Witchers are efficient. We burn through everything at a much higher rate than normal, but we can keep going well after other people would have died from exhaustion. Especially if we have a chance to refuel.”

“Useful in your line of work, I imagine,” Emhyr said.

“Yeah, when you run across a lot of things that wanna eat you, it pays to be able to fight harder than they can.”

Emhyr hummed thoughtfully, moving to sit on the side of the bed he’d claimed for himself. It hadn’t completely escaped Geralt’s attention that Emhyr had left him to pick first, and taken the remaining side.

What he wasn’t sure of was whether that was coincidence, or whether he’d picked the side Emhyr didn’t want anyway, or if Emhyr had actually let him make the decision.

“Your eyes,” Emhyr began, hesitant for what Geralt suspected was the first time in his entire life. “Do you see differently?”

No one ever asked that. People gave him all kinds of crap over it, but no one ever _asked_.

“Uh, yeah. I can see pretty well in the dark compared to before the mutations,” Geralt said, seeing no reason not to simply answer the question. “The dark used to scare the hell out of me,” he added, and then instantly wondered why he’d chosen to share that with Emhyr, of all people.

“I found it surprisingly comforting as a child. I suppose because I had no concept of what might hide in the shadows. You, on the other hand…”

“Grew up reading about monsters before bedtime,” Geralt said. “Real monsters I was going to have to fight one day.”

“Whereas my monsters were strategy and law and languages,” Emhyr said. “They seemed less likely to snatch me from my bed. I was safe of an evening and could read the books I cared about instead.”

“What books _did_ you care about?” Geralt asked, figuring that he might as well while they both seemed to be in the mood to share.

“Anything that took me away from here,” Emhyr said. “Stories about foreign lands and ancient wars and elven customs. Even the occasional tome on monsters. We may have shared some childhood reading.”

“Maybe,” Geralt said. “Think I’ve read just about every book on monsters ever written.”

“You ought to check the palace library once this is over,” Emhyr said. “Consider it at your disposal.”

The way Emhyr said it made it sound like nothing, but something told Geralt that not just _anyone_ had access to that library. Certainly not scruffy witchers who spent most of their time being actively rude to the emperor.

Emhyr _liked_ that, though, Geralt was fairly sure. He was a hard man to read, but he could have avoided Geralt entirely now that he had Ciri back. The fact that he _didn't_ had to mean something.

“Thank you,” Geralt said. “I'll come to you with any complex words I have trouble with,” he added, not wanting to wander too far into sincere territory.

“I’d offer you the opportunity to sit in on Cirilla’s lessons, but I suspect you’d prove too much of a distraction and I would prefer not to handle a crying tutor later,” Emhyr said.

“I wouldn't make the tutor cry,” Geralt objected.

“You made Mererid cry,” Emhyr pointed out with the faintest note of amusement in his voice. “But in your defense, he is a very highly strung man.”

“Then why is he your chamberlain?” Geralt asked.

“Because if he is ever bought off in a plot against me he would not be able to conceal his anxiety about it,” Emhyr said. “Besides, he fears punishment so deeply that he never makes a mistake.”

“Wow,” Geralt said. “Glad I don't have your job. At least I only have to worry about monsters.”

“I was under the impression that witchers didn't worry.”

Wetting his lips, Geralt considered his response. He’d given away too much of himself to Emhyr already, but then… what was the harm? It was nice to just _talk_ to someone for once, and he didn't see any point in denying himself the simple pleasure by shutting down now.

Besides, Emhyr’s nonjudgmental curiosity was… flattering. Few people cared to ask sincerely what witchers were like.

“You know that moment when you face a threat and something inside you either tells you to run or stand and fight?” Geralt asked.

Emhyr nodded, clearly listening intently.

“The thing that makes me want to run is gone,” Geralt said simply. “That's what people mean when they say witchers aren't afraid. I worry about all kinds of things, but I never run.”

A thoughtful hum was the only response Emhyr offered.

“Sorry if that's not what you were hoping to hear,” Geralt added, suddenly awkward.

“I had no particular hopes,” Emhyr said. “I _expected_ you to continue the fiction, though. That you are a man stripped of all feeling. But then you could not have loved Cirilla so deeply if you were. She speaks of you constantly.”

Geralt rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed.

“We're not all the same. Witchers, I mean. But I've never met one who genuinely didn't feel things. Most of us are just pretty good at hiding how we feel.”

“I hope you aren't counting yourself among that number,” Emhyr said wryly. “You are a very expressive man. Quick to give voice to anger and frustration and quick to act out of love and kindness.”

Geralt opened his mouth to respond--though what he might say in response to that, he wasn't sure--when the horn for the next match sounded.

“I need to watch that,” Geralt said. “Get an idea of what I'll be up against later.”

“I will join you when I am required,” Emhyr said. “For now, paperwork calls.”

“Nilfgaard never sleeps, huh?” Geralt asked wryly, feeling as though they were back in safer territory.

“It does not,” Emhyr responded, equally unamused by the idea. “Go enjoy the sport.”

It wasn't exactly a dismissal, but Geralt took it as one anyway and went to head back toward the arena to get a read on his possible future opponents.

***

Geralt’s second match went much better than his his first. Not only did he gain points for first blood, but he also knocked his opponent out this time.

The crowd had already fallen in love with him.

Blood was streaming from his nose.

Emhyr looked down at him where he sat, unsure whether to give him the cloth for his swollen eye or help him wipe away the blood to check for any serious injuries.

“I'll be fine in the morning,” Geralt said through a nose full of blood, the one eye he could still open fixed firmly on Emhyr’s face. “These people aren't farmers and merchants with something to prove, are they?”

“What kind of idiot would go to the trouble of sponsoring a _farmer_ in a warrior’s tournament?” Emhyr asked. “The least experienced person here will still be an enthusiastic amateur with some amount of formal training behind them.”

“Coulda warned me,” Geralt grumbled.

Decision made, Emhyr reached out to dab blood away from his face, starting with his chin and slowly working toward more tender areas.

“I had thought this would be obvious from context,” Emhyr barked back, and then an uncomfortable thought occurred to him. “You are not outmatched?”

Geralt shrugged, which was not the most comforting answer he could have given.

Dammit.

Emhyr had so much _faith_ in Geralt he hadn't bothered to check if he was up to the task. A stupid, emotional mistake, his certainty that Geralt would prevail because that was how his personal universe always went getting in the way of his better judgement.

“If I’d known half of them would be military I would have asked to see how they're trained first. I mean, I _assume_ Nilfgaardians get unarmed training.”

“Of course,” Emhyr said. “Unlike the northern kings, we want our soldiers to live. Not simply die for the cause in large enough numbers to make conquest inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient?” Geralt asked, clearly unhappy with that description.

“If your army is made up of the people who normally tend the land, then killing off three-quarters of it effortlessly does the conquering force no good at all. It is as much a military tactic as anything else, though a callous one. The land is useless if there is no one left to plough it afterwards. And standing armies are expensive compared to simply handing out cheaply-made blades to farmers.”

“Oh.” Geralt’s shoulders slumped, his anger fading.

“Which is why we neither have nor need witchers in Nilfgaard. Present company an obvious exception.”

“Because the military handles monsters?” Geralt asked.

“Precisely. This gives them something to _do_ during peacetime.”

Geralt sighed. “So I might well be outmatched.”

“Would it make a difference if someone took you through the way our soldiers are taught to fight unarmed?”

“Sure,” Geralt said. “A huge one, but you said I'm not allowed to get help from anyone but you.”

“You are not,” Emhyr responded, finally passing Geralt the cloth to hold against his eye. “So I will wake you at first light and show you.”

“You'll _what_?” Geralt asked.

“I am the head of the military. Do you imagine I've had no training myself?”

Of course Geralt did. He _had_ seen Emhyr fight, but that had been a long time ago, and he’d undoubtedly given little thought to it. He likely didn't even think of Emhyr as the same _person_.

It had occurred to Emhyr before that Geralt had a much larger and more important role in _his_ life than he had in Geralt's.

Though he was still thinking about Geralt considering him a part of his destiny.

And now, like everyone else, all he saw was a man who ruled at a safe distance from the actual fighting.

In which case, he was in for quite a surprise.


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt realised Emhyr had been _serious_ and not overestimating his abilities around the time he’d been knocked flat on his back, looking up at a smirking Emhyr offering him a hand up.

The strength in Emhyr’s arm and the speed and precision of his blows--not to mention the tactical brilliance--all came as a surprise.

“You needn't go easy on me,” Emhyr said as he hauled Geralt to his feet, a task plenty of men would have struggled with.

He’d been pulling his punches, more demonstrating where they _would_ have landed than trying to hurt Geralt.

“Ciri would be upset if I actually hurt you,” Geralt said, though he was less and less afraid that he was going to.

That came as a surprise to Emhyr, judging by the look on his face.

“You are unlikely to injure me by accident,” Emhyr said. “I believe I've demonstrated that.”

“Yeah,” Geralt said. “ _You’ve_ been going easy on _me_.”

Emhyr scoffed, looking away to where the sun was just starting to clear the horizon. Bathed in the golden light of it, in just a thin shirt and surprisingly practical trousers rolled up to the bottom of his calves, Emhyr still seemed unmistakably regal.

But Geralt had seen the first hint of teeth and claws now. He’d seen a fighting spirit he must have known, logically, was there. But he’d never acknowledged it before. The Emhyr who’d spent years fending for himself as a literal _child_ seemed like a different man to this one, and Geralt was just now realising how deliberate that was.

He didn't want to be alone and afraid anymore, so he’d put it thoroughly behind him. It might have been a damned useful story to humanise him, something he’d said he _needed_ , but he didn't tell it.

“Come at me like you're trying to win,” Geralt said. “There’s no point to this if I can't see what you'll do when you're motivated.”

Emhyr raised an eyebrow. “For that, I would need to be more motivated to risk harming you than to avoid it.”

“You wanna make a wager?” Geralt asked, almost positive he had to be wrong.

“Yes,” Emhyr said. “If I am going to take the risk of revealing the last few advantages I might have over you, then there ought to be something in it for me, should I prevail.”

“What the hell could you possibly want from me?”

“I will name my prize when I win,” Emhyr said. “And offer you the same terms.”

Geralt shrugged. He’d already travelled through multiple portals to distant, hostile worlds with an equally distant, hostile Aen Elle in the pursuit of doing Emhyr’s bidding, so there wasn't much worse he could ask.

Knowing Emhyr, he’d just make Geralt polish something.

“Deal,” Geralt said, balancing his weight to take whatever Emhyr was about to throw at him. “Come at me.”

Emhyr gave him a shallow nod.

As it turned out, what Emhyr planned on throwing at Geralt was _himself_ , driving his shoulder hard into Geralt’s side. The force was enough to knock him off-balance, and he’d only _almost_ recovered before Emhyr kicked the foot he was leaning on out from under him, lightning-fast.

He reached out at the last moment, grabbing a fistful of Emhyr’s shirt in the hope of steadying himself.

Unfortunately, Emhyr had leaned too far into the blow, and as soon as Geralt grabbed him his balance gave out as well.

Geralt grunted as he hit the dirt floor of the training ring, having fallen a little more awkwardly than he would have liked.

He expected the impact of Emhyr’s weight to wind him a second time, but that wasn't quite what happened.

Emhyr had landed comparatively gracefully, the heel of one hand driving into the sore spot where he’d struck Geralt with his shoulder. The other hand was on Geralt’s neck, in exactly the right spot to crush his throat with very little effort.

And his knee was right on top of Geralt’s groin, putting just enough pressure on him to act as an effective threat.

“I imagine you’d rather admit defeat than continue,” Emhyr said, pressing down just a fraction with his knee.

Geralt could have knocked him off now, if he’d wanted to, but only because Emhyr hadn’t gone through with his entire plan of attack.

He’d won. He would always have won, and Geralt had learned everything he needed to know, anyway.

“You fight dirty,” Geralt said, amazed that the Emperor of Nilfgaard, His Majesty Emhyr var Emreis and four hundred other titles, had taken him out unarmed.

The faintest flare of arousal heated Geralt’s gut at the thought. He’d always had a thing for people who could have killed him and had simply chosen not to.

Of course, Emhyr could have had him killed a dozen times over before now, but this was the first time he’d shown that he could _personally_ do it.

“I fight like I intend to win,” Emhyr said. “The notion of _honour_ in a life-or-death situation is ridiculous. Better to take the surest route to survival.”

“If I say you won, will you get off me?” Geralt asked, beginning to worry that his body would give away the fact that he was kind of getting off on the idea of Emhyr as a serious sparring partner.

Not many people got the crap beat out of them by their own personal emperor, after all.

Emhyr rolled off Geralt gracefully and rose to his feet, offering his hand with that same smirk again.

“You gonna tell me what you’ve won?” Geralt asked, letting Emhyr take a little more of his weight this time.

“You will appear with me at dinner tonight, publicly,” Emhyr said. “You will dress appropriately, and you will sit by my side and you will smile for the people so they may enjoy their newfound affection for you to the fullest.”

“And transfer some of it to you in the process,” Geralt said, recalling their earlier conversation about Geralt’s presence making Emhyr look good.

“Precisely. You didn't imagine I’d ask for something that wouldn't benefit me, did you?” Emhyr raised an eyebrow.

“I guess at least you're not asking me to help you conquer Zerrikania or something,” Geralt grumbled.

“I have an excellent trade relationship with Zerrikania and absolutely no motivation to administer yet another gaggle of squabbling minor rulers in a language I require a translator to fully understand. If I’d realised the people of the North were so prone to petty whining over sovereignty I wouldn't have bothered.”

“Hey, Roche is a friend and he got the better of you,” Geralt said.

“And I understand he is now suffering greatly for it under the weight of being responsible for the administration of Temeria until such time as there is an heir old enough to take the throne. Which is exactly what he deserves for unexamined patriotism.”

Much as Geralt actually _liked_ Roche, he couldn't quite argue with that.

Besides, Roche probably _was_ suffering, but he also probably thought he was doing his duty to Foltest’s memory, so in a weird way he was probably happy.

“So you're done with conquest?” Geralt asked.

“I am preparing the empire for a time of unsurpassed peace and prosperity so Cirilla can have the life I always wanted for her,” Emhyr said. “I will strengthen trade relationships to the point of being unbreakable, and then I will retire gracefully and put myself at her disposal as a diplomatic pawn. One day, if I am very lucky, I will play with my grandchildren in a summer house far from the city.”

The idea of _grandchildren_ had never even occurred to Geralt. Suddenly, though, he couldn't think of anything he wanted more than to hold Ciri’s child in his arms.

… which meant he was going to end up _sharing_ grandchildren with Emhyr.

Well, he had better stories, anyway. He’d easily be their favourite.

“You know, when you put it that way… I don't mind making you look better if it's for Ciri’s sake.”

“You would like grandchildren,” Emhyr said perceptively, something like warmth in his voice.

“I would,” Geralt agreed. “And I want Ciri to be happy.”

“Then our ultimate goals are aligned.” Emhyr glanced over at the edge of the training grounds, where other competitors were just starting to filter in.

“I'm guessing it wouldn't be ideal for the people to see you rolling around in the dirt with a common witcher?” Geralt asked, nodding to the newcomers.

“Perhaps not,” Emhyr allowed. “And you should rest in any case. Has this at least been instructive?”

“It has, I think. Guess we'll find out later.”

“I would prefer not to have to explain your death to my daughter,” Emhyr said. “I'm not sure she’d ever forgive me.”

“I'll try not to die,” Geralt promised, rolling his shoulders and then leading the way back to the tent.

He was starting to get the hang of how things were done in Nilfgaard.

***

The level of satisfaction Emhyr felt over having Geralt sit at his side and behave himself was outright indecent. The fact that he’d earned it by besting him, _physically_ , made the victory all the sweeter.

He had beaten Geralt in his own area of expertise, and now he was reaping the rewards.

Emhyr had always liked to be seen with the person whose presence at his side would make the largest number of people envious. Geralt was most certainly that person, and for the evening, Emhyr had _earned_ him. Not convinced him it was in his best interests, nor commanded his presence simply because he could.

His performance earlier in the day had only solidified the population’s attachment to him. They had cheered his name.

He _had_ learned several useful things from this morning, as well. He was quicker to strike, aware now that his opponents weren’t afraid of him and would do their best to hurt him, since that was the _point_.

It had perhaps taken the shock of being tackled to the ground by a man Geralt undoubtedly thought of as vastly physically weaker than he was for him to understand that while his skill as a witcher could reasonably be said to be unmatched, he did not know _everything_ about the art of combat. And faced with someone who had been trained very differently, whose goals were so separate from his own--who had been taught to subdue _men_ , not monsters--he had faltered.

But only the once.

The satisfaction of having taught Geralt something new, something tangible that he would use in his life, was also entirely indecent.

Emhyr couldn’t quite bring himself to care. He was enjoying the opportunity to be smug about his accomplishments.

“You did well today,” Emhyr said, feeling generous enough to offer Geralt a genuine compliment.

“Thanks,” Geralt said wryly, which was approximately the response Emhyr was expecting. He didn’t care.

People would see him having a quiet, amicable conversation with a man they all desired one way or another--whether to be him or be _with_ him, and in many cases, both.

Besides, their constant verbal sparring was, Emhyr could admit in the privacy of his own mind, a source of great amusement to him. Few people were willing to talk back to an emperor.

Geralt was unwilling to do anything _other_ than talk back.

“You’re stronger than you look,” he added after a moment, clearly not entirely happy that this was a fact he was forced to acknowledge.

“I would argue that I am no stronger than I _look_ , merely stronger than you perceive me to be.”

“Not many people get the better of me,” Geralt continued, almost as though Emhyr hadn’t spoken. “I underestimated you.”

“A mistake that normally proves fatal,” Emhyr responded.

“But you fight like an idiot,” Geralt added.

It took Emhyr a moment to process what Geralt had said.

“What?” he asked, genuinely surprised by being called an _idiot_. He was many things, and there were many insults he’d come to expect, but few people mistook him for stupid. Certainly, those that did tended not to live long if they acted on their belief.

“You fight like an idiot,” Geralt said. “Which was a surprise. You used up all your energy in one move. You could _never_ catch me off-guard like that again, and the next time you try it, I’ll be ready, and you’ll have overextended yourself with no hope of recovery. You fight like you know you’ll win, which is stupid.”

“Yes,” Emhyr said. “But if I had been serious, you would have been dead.”

“Maybe,” Geralt said, “unless I got the better of you some other way. Your entire technique is based on the idea that you won’t make a mistake.”

“If I make a mistake, then it is my day to die,” Emhyr said. “I have lived my whole life knowing that.”

He could feel Geralt staring at him, but was suddenly unwilling to meet the witcher’s gaze.

The idea of seeing _pity_ there was too much to bear.

“In the morning,” Geralt said. “I’m teaching you how to fight so you _don’t_ die if you make a mistake.”

Warmth bloomed unexpectedly in Emhyr’s chest. Of all the things he’d imagined, Geralt wanting to make sure he lived had not been one of them.

Perhaps it was simply disgust at Emhyr’s lack of knowledge or training. There was no guarantee that it was any kind of personal investment in Emhyr’s continued good health.

But there was definitely part of him that wanted to believe it was. That wanted to believe his own lies about Geralt thinking him _worthy_. Worthy of life was a start.

Worthy of affection seemed impossible, but Emhyr couldn’t deny, at this point, that some part of him wanted _that_ , as well.

A passing fancy fuelled by the fact that all of Nilfgaard wanted Geralt’s affection tonight. That was all.

Emhyr was almost sure of it.

***

“Stop trying to take the blow and _get out of the goddamn way_ ,” Geralt scolded, his frustration finally boiling over. He still wasn’t _shouting_ , he was too experienced an instructor for that, but he was obviously very near to the point where he might.

“This is not a fair fight,” Emhyr complained, his lungs burning as he heaved for breath. “You are faster and stronger than I am.”

“You think it’s gonna be a fair fight when--” Geralt paused, then looked at Emhyr with wide eyes. A moment later, he laughed.

Emhyr wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or relieved. Instead of responding, he waited silently for Geralt to explain himself.

“You just reminded me of Ciri. Guess she really is your daughter.”

A twinge of something fluttered around Emhyr’s heart.

“She learned faster, though,” Geralt added, and Emhyr knew he was being teased, but he was so unused to it that he wasn’t sure how to react.

“She was younger,” he said. “And always an adventurous child.”

“Should’ve seen her face the first day she beat me for real.” Geralt grinned.

For the briefest moment, Emhyr saw a flash of a very different life, one in which Geralt had played the part of second father to Cirilla by his side. He imagined watching his daughter train with a man who he was grateful to, who had become a member of his household out of loyalty.

The thought was gone as suddenly as it had hit him, a flash of imagination that reflected a world that could never have been. But the sense of longing lingered.

Longing to simply have _someone_ he could rely on. Someone who would not betray him, because betrayal simply wasn’t in their nature.

Geralt could so easily have been that someone. He was certainly the most likely candidate.

It was, of course, a ridiculous idea. But experience told Emhyr that the most ridiculous ideas were the ones that took root most easily.

Sometimes, they were even the _right_ ones.

“Emhyr,” Geralt said, drawing him out of his thoughts.

He hadn’t been called by his own name to his face so often in his entire life. Which was probably not helping to quell the growing sense of intimacy he felt with Geralt, one he had been unable to shake since Geralt had bid him good night the evening before with warmth in his voice and the hint of a smile on his face.

Undoubtedly, this was a one-sided feeling.

“Once more,” Emhyr said. Complaining aside, he did not intend to end this entirely defeated.

This time, he watched Geralt shift his weight, keeping his own balanced between his feet, watching carefully for any indication about which hand the blow was going to come from. Geralt hadn’t _hit_ him, he’d always stopped short of that, but he’d made it clear that had he intended it to, every strike would have connected.

The faintest twitch of Geralt’s arm warned Emhyr the barest moment before he struck, and somehow, Emhyr finally remembered to dodge out of the way. The blow went past his shoulder, a complete miss, unmistakable.

To even his own surprise, a broad grin broke over his face.

“Yeah, that’s the look,” Geralt said, pride and fondness in his voice.

Remembered pride and fondness for Cirilla, no doubt.

Emhyr schooled his features, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Yes, well. She _is_ my daughter. We are bound to have some things in common.”

“You’re both stubborn pains in the ass who don’t like it when you’re not immediately good at things,” Geralt said, though nothing about his tone suggested he thought these were bad qualities.

“I am accustomed to being immediately good at things,” Emhyr defended.

Geralt chuckled. “You know, that’s the weird thing. Even with the extra mutations, I never really felt like I was the  _best_ at anything. I hated that everyone seemed to have an easier time than me.”

“And yet your accomplishments are difficult to fault.”

“Practice makes perfect.” Geralt shrugged. “You wanna try again?”

Emhyr glanced around the training ring, finding it still deserted except for the two of them.

“Perhaps once or twice more,” he allowed, loathe to give up the feeling that Geralt was, for once, pleased with him.

Hopefully, his current impulse to chase that feeling would not become a problem.


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt moaned happily as Emhyr pressed his thumbs deep into the sore, knotted muscles of his neck, letting his head fall forward to give him as much access as possible.

“Gods, keep doing that,” he murmured, voice strained. This was unexpected, but he wasn’t about to complain.

Emhyr made a small, smug noise in the back of his throat, but he didn’t _stop_ , so Geralt didn’t care. This was bliss. He hadn’t realised how much pain he was in until the warmth of Emhyr’s hands and the strength of his fingers worked it out.

It had vaguely occurred to Geralt to wonder why Emhyr might have the first clue about how to do this, but he’d decided he didn’t really care about that, either.

“Consider this a reward for not leaving me to clean up blood today,” Emhyr said good-naturedly. He almost sounded like he was having as good a time as Geralt was, though Geralt wasn’t sure anyone had ever been this happy.

He’d had sex he’d enjoyed less than this.

Not that he intended to tell Emhyr that. The last thing he needed was to think any more highly of himself.

“I think you’re just happy with me for having the most points now,” Geralt said.

“I like winning,” Emhyr admitted. “And I am not ashamed to say so.”

“I'm the one winning,” Geralt pointed out.

“But I chose you,” Emhyr said. “And I have tended to you and even trained with you. I am satisfied with my participation regardless of what you think of it.”

Geralt snorted. “I won't say I couldn't have done it without you, but you've been surprisingly helpful. Ciri was right.”

“About?”

“We've got a lot in common. More than I expected,” Geralt said.

“If there's something you want,” Emhyr responded calmly. “I am in a more than good enough mood to grant more or less any reasonable request. You needn't flatter me further.”

“That's not flattery,” Geralt said. “And I'm not after anything. I’d just _ask_ if I was. Besides, you’re gonna owe me whatever I want when this is over.”

“I am curious about what you'll ask for,” Emhyr said. “I have difficulty imagining what you might _want_ that I could possibly provide.”

“Honestly? No idea,” Geralt admitted, since Emhyr was still massaging his neck and shoulders and _he_ was in a good mood, too. “I figured I’d think of something, but I haven't yet. What do people traditionally ask for?”

“Well, originally, freedom. For themselves or a loved one. But you are neither convict nor slave, and I'm not sure you know any of either.”

Geralt hummed. That definitely made sense, but Emhyr was right. He didn't need that.

“More recently, permission to marry someone objectionable to their family has been popular,” Emhyr continued. “Since the emperor’s word is the ultimate authority. But I can't imagine you having much use for that, either. And you would not accept my permission in any case.”

“What about Ciri? Can I do something for her?”

“I can't imagine what she might want that I wouldn't grant her simply because I love her and wish to earn and maintain her affection,” Emhyr said, the faintest hint of emotion in his voice, his touch lightening just a fraction, bordering on tender rather than practical firmness.

Geralt didn't hate that. It'd been a while since anyone had touched him gently.

Not that he necessarily wanted _Emhyr_ doing it, but he was starting to realise that he didn't object as much as he’d expected to.

Or _at all_ , for that matter.

When Emhyr was in a good mood and they were getting along, Geralt even kind of liked him.

“I could get you to keep doing this,” Geralt said, rolling his neck with a happy sigh now that Emhyr had worked the tension out of it.

He’d expected it to stop once the last of the knots were gone, but that hadn't happened yet.

“You like it that much?” Emhyr asked, mostly amused, but with an edge of… something.

In another man, Geralt might have called it shyness.

He opened his mouth to respond that yeah, actually, this was pretty damned good, when Emhyr slid his fingers up the back of Geralt’s scalp, tugging just a little on his hair. Whatever he’d been about to say turned into a low, needy moan as Emhyr's fingers worked, easing the tension _there_ as well.

A hot rush of sheer pleasure flowed down Geralt’s spine, pooling in his gut.

_Damn_.

Emhyr _really_ knew what he was doing. This side of him hadn't been a part of Geralt's mental picture of who he was before, but now he couldn't help making all the connections it implied.

Starting with the part where he must have been one hell of a lover.

Which wasn't a thought Geralt had ever expected to have. If he’d ever thought about it before--and he wasn't saying he _had_ but okay, maybe it’d crossed his mind because bossy and demanding was his _type_ \--he would have expected…

Well. Bossy and demanding.

But that wasn't what he was getting. Not exactly, anyway. He hadn't forgotten that this was a reward for good behaviour.

If this was what the rewards were like, Emhyr could train Geralt to be his personal lapdog and Geralt wouldn't even really mind.

“I like it that much,” Geralt confessed, breathless. He didn't even care right now that Emhyr was never going to let him live it down.

“Then you are sufficiently motivated not to bleed tomorrow,” Emhyr murmured, his voice soft and dark and suddenly doing all kinds of things for Geralt.

“No bleeding,” Geralt promised, sighing happily, Emhyr's fingers still deep in his hair. “I'll win every tournament you throw at me if you keep doing that.”

“I had not imagined you would be so easily bought,” Emhyr murmured.

“You’d be surprised,” Geralt responded, his eyes getting heavy as Emhyr continued to stroke through his hair.

He remembered what Ciri had said about remembering warmth and wisdom, and wondered if he was seeing Emhyr as he had been, before all this. The last time he was happy.

“Your tendency to surprise me constantly is perhaps the most uncomfortable thing about your company,” Emhyr said. “I am accustomed to knowing where I stand with people.”

“You're confused by me because I'm not afraid of you and I don't want anything,” Geralt said. “And no one else in your life is like that. Except Ciri.”

Emhyr hummed in the affirmative.

“Ever considered just taking me as I am?” Geralt asked.

“I thought that was what I was doing,” Emhyr responded, and he was outright stroking Geralt’s hair now instead of providing any kind of massage, but Geralt _really_ didn't mind. He was in danger of falling asleep like this.

“Guess you are,” Geralt admitted, allowing his eyes to fall closed. “I'm actually starting to like you.”

“Distressing as it is to me,” Emhyr drawled lazily, “I am beginning to enjoy your company, as well.”

Geralt hummed again, happy to let this continue until Emhyr got bored of the novelty of petting him.

***

Touching Geralt, Emhyr now realised, had been a mistake.

A mistake which had left him lying awake two feet away from a gently-snoring witcher, uncomfortably aware of his need for a palmful of oil and ten minutes of privacy.

He had considered the possibility of trying to be very quiet, but his fear of being caught overruled his need for the time being.

He would not risk Geralt’s disgust, and he would not expose him to desire he likely had no interest in participating in, even while he was asleep. No, that would be unconscionable.

Unfortunately, it was impossible to get the witcher out of his mind, the way he’d hissed and moaned and reacted to Emhyr’s touch, not once flinching away.

It was equally impossible, though vastly more embarrassing, to forget that Geralt had said he was beginning to _like_ Emhyr.

He could count on one hand the number of people who’d _liked_ him in his life and have fingers left over.

The way it had made his heart flutter--was _still_ making his heart flutter--made him want to grin like an idiot and offer Geralt anything he wanted in return for his continued affection, which, having had the barest taste of it, Emhyr was beginning to crave.

He could see very easily how so many people had tied themselves to Geralt’s cause. There was something addictive about having his approval.

Emhyr had told him how valuable it was for the people to see that Geralt thought him worthy without realising how desperately he could come to want that for himself.

This had definitely reached the stage of being a problem, and Emhyr was not yet sure how to solve it.

***

Geralt was bleeding.

Worse, he had a heavy hand around his neck and an equally heavy body on top of him, pressing down with more force than he could counter. He was exhausted, and running out of air, and in serious danger of having his throat crushed.

“I yield,” Emhyr’s voice bellowed from the sidelines.

The grip on his throat didn't even falter. Geralt struggled, what was left of his brain function telling him to lash out, kick, bite, scratch, whatever he had to do to in order to survive.

“I _yield_ ,” Emhyr called out again, and there was fear in his voice this time, desperation.

Which was oddly touching. Emhyr cared whether or not he died.

The hand eased off, the huge man on top of Geralt--who must've barely scraped in under the height and weight regulations--getting off him with an unhappy grunt.

Geralt's head spun as air rushed into his lungs, his brain throbbing after the lack of oxygen.

The sound of footsteps coming toward him made him wince, but Emhyr's now-familiar scent hit his nostrils before he started to panic.

“What do you need?”

Geralt swallowed, unable to answer, his throat swelling from the pressure.

“Of course,” Emhyr said, presumably to himself. “I cannot carry you, but I expect I will be able to take your weight. Nod if that will be enough.”

Geralt nodded. He was weak--exhausted--but he could manage to stand with a little help.

Emhyr hauled him up with less effort than Geralt expected, pulling Geralt's arm around his shoulders and steadying him with his own arm around Geralt’s waist.

With one eye swollen shut and the other full of blood from a cut through his brow, Geralt had to rely on Emhyr tugging him in the right direction. He did his best to cooperate, but he knew he was being a pain in the ass.

Emhyr didn't complain. He was silent the entire way back to the warmth and darkness of the tent, where he set Geralt on the bed and wiped the blood from his eye, then pressed a cup of water into his hand a moment later, though took it away again when he shook too much to hold it.

Instead, Emhyr sat beside him, put one hand around his shoulders to steady him, and held the cup to his lips instead.

Angry as he was with himself for losing the match, Geralt was grateful for the assistance. He drank greedily, water spilling down his chin as Emhyr misjudged how fast he needed to pour to keep up with him, his throat hurting with every swallow.

“Thanks,” he gasped after a moment.

“Don't speak,” Emhyr commanded, his voice firmer than it had been around Geralt in days.

In that moment, Geralt felt as though he’d lost something.

Emhyr was disappointed in him. He’d bled. He’d had to _yield_.

He’d screwed up, and embarrassed Emhyr in front of the whole crowd.

“You shouldn't have pulled me out,” Geralt croaked. “I could've turned it around.”

“No, you couldn't,” Emhyr said.

“I _could_ ,” Geralt retorted, bitter that Emhyr had lost faith in him.

“You could _not_ ,” Emhyr insisted. “That man had already killed two opponents. I was not willing to take the risk of you being the third.”

“Right.” Geralt swallowed, his throat protesting with every word--but not enough to stop him arguing. “Can't win if I'm dead.”

“Not without three more points, no,” Emhyr said, shifting his weight. His hand came up to Geralt’s jaw, covering a bruise there.

“But that is not why I do not wish you to die,” he murmured, voice soft again.

Geralt gasped in surprise as Emhyr's lips touched his own--his own, which were covered in his blood.

Emhyr didn't seem to mind the blood. If anything, he was sucking it off, keeping the kiss gentle but by no means innocent, intent and desire rolling off him like a physical force as he held Geralt in place and took what he wanted.

Geralt didn't even consider objecting. He was too shocked to react much at all.

“You will rest.” Emhyr’s lips brushed against Geralt's as he spoke, their noses pressed together side-by-side, the distance between them barely enough for daylight to get through.

The contrary part of Geralt wanted to argue, but the rest of him was sore and tired and desperate to close his eyes.

Besides, that had been his last match of the day. He could afford to sleep for a little while.

Especially since it was easier than processing the part where Emhyr had _kissed_ him. And he didn't hate it.

He actually kind of _liked_ it and kind of wanted to do it again.

Which was a little unexpected, but not anything he could be bothered worrying about right now.

Geralt allowed himself to be pushed down onto the bed and tucked under the blankets, sighing happily the moment he didn't need to support any of his own weight.

A few moments later, Emhyr started dabbing at his face with a washcloth. He hissed at the contact, but he knew he’d feel better when he wasn't covered in his own blood.

“No one would blame you if you withdrew,” Emhyr murmured as he worked, his touch feather-light over the most tender places.

Emhyr would have. Emhyr would have been _livid_ if Geralt withdrew.

But Geralt also got the feeling that he was just shaken enough to let it happen anyway.

Not that it was about to.

Geralt snorted. “I've had worse. I'll be fine in a few hours.”

“You will have to describe for me which one of the vials you want,” Emhyr said. “If you want one at all.”

“The one that looks like blood,” Geralt said. “It's not blood, don't worry.”

“I understand it would more or less dissolve the liver of a normal man,” Emhyr responded.

Geralt hummed. “Probably,” he said. “At the dose I plan to use it’d be a last resort for anyone else. You’d survive a couple of drops if you're that curious.”

“As much as I am filled with confidence by that assessment, I think it might be better all round if I abstain from trying.”

“Maybe,” Geralt allowed. “You kissed me,” he said, apparently unable to let the subject go.

“Yes,” Emhyr agreed.

“Why?”

The sound of Emhyr swallowing echoed in Geralt's ears.

“I would have you for myself and I could not bear the thought of losing the chance entirely,” Emhyr said. “I see no purpose in lying about my desires. I imagine that would only cause unnecessary discomfort for both of us.”

Right.

Like it wasn't uncomfortable at all for the most powerful man in the world to want to get into Geralt's pants.

Well, no, if _that_ was what Emhyr wanted, it would have been fine. Sex was great, and Geralt liked it, and his curiosity about what Emhyr was like in bed had been thoroughly piqued.

What Emhyr wanted was different. Possessive. A whole lot more intense than simple lust.

That, Geralt was unsure of. Not entirely opposed to. But definitely not a hundred percent on board with.

This wasn't a decision he could make right now, and it didn't really sound like Emhyr _wanted_ him to, anyway. He could think about it when he felt less like crap.

Emhyr moved from Geralt’s side for a moment, then returned to press a potion vial into his hand. “I believe this is the one you asked for.”

Geralt uncorked it, sniffed it, and then drained the whole thing in one mouthful. He could feel it working immediately, speeding up his already fast healing process, but…

Maybe if Emhyr was going to keep stroking his hair, he didn't need to let on how well it worked, or how quickly. Not just yet, anyway.

“I'm planning on winning this,” Geralt said.

“Of course,” Emhyr responded, digging his fingers deep into Geralt's hair and scratching at his scalp lightly. “You are not so easily defeated.”

“Don't you forget it,” he murmured, happy to let Emhyr soothe him to sleep if that was what he wanted.

“I suspect you won’t let me.”

Geralt almost got through coming up with an answer to that before he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm not even sorry about where I left this)


	5. Chapter 5

The sex, as it turned out, was exactly as Geralt now realised he should have expected it to be.

Emhyr held him down by the back of his head, gripping his hair tight--he’d caught on that Geralt liked that--and fucked him so slowly and patiently that Geralt was almost in _tears_ with the frustration of not being able to come from it.

Everything Emhyr did to him was thorough and possessive, his thrusts shallow enough that almost all of his cock had been inside Geralt for what felt like hours. There was no sign he planned on speeding up anytime soon.

Geralt didn't even _want_ him to. His breathing and heartbeat had fallen into time with the way Emhyr was rocking into him, his cock leaking steadily against his own stomach. He’d _never_ had sex like this before.

Never been with someone this patient, someone who was accustomed to waiting for the things he wanted. Geralt had always vaguely understood that Emhyr's self-control was incredible, but he hadn't realised it'd extend to this.

He groaned as Emhyr _finally_ wrapped his free hand around his cock, biting down on the inside of his lip so he didn't come immediately. His gut ached with need, throbbing pleasure twisted deep inside him, all of this careful, patient attention leaving him right on the edge.

There was nothing special about this except for the knowledge that Geralt had all of Emhyr’s vast attention on _him_ , that he was the only thing in his world right now, and while he’d never really thought he was in awe of Emhyr's power, there was definitely _something_ about that.

“You needn't hold out for my sake,” Emhyr murmured, his voice unfairly even, as though he was making an offhand remark about the weather.

The impulse to do whatever it took to drag Emhyr into want and need, sobbing and groaning his way through frantic, messy sex that ended in bruises and coming too soon hit Geralt hard, his cock twitching in Emhyr's hand.

He knew what that would take. Emhyr had _told_ him what it would take.

Having Geralt as his own. This was patient and restrained because it _had_ to be, because Emhyr couldn't afford to do this for anything but sheer physical pleasure, and of _course_ he got off on driving Geralt right to the point of begging.

If Geralt wanted anything else, if he wanted _passion_ , he’d have to yield. He’d have to give Emhyr what _he_ wanted, first.

And it wasn't the worst idea he’d ever had. A retirement filled with comfort and pleasure and the devotion of an emperor and the chance to be close to Ciri and his potential future grandchildren held a whole lot of appeal.

And to Geralt's surprise, he didn't so much mind that it was _Emhyr_.

Hell, it even made a kind of sense. Their lives had been tangled up together for a long time, and the most important thing in the world to both of them was the same.

Geralt closed his eyes, letting the friction of Emhyr’s broad hand coax him right to the edge, his gut aching with the need to come. Emhyr’s fingers were pen-callused instead of sword-callused, unlike any man Geralt had been with before, but no less incredible for it. Of course, he was an _emperor_ , which made him pretty unique in the first place.

And Geralt still felt as though some part of him was tied to Emhyr. There was a cord running between them, inescapable, and it made this feel _right_. Like they’d been building up to it, like it was what they were _supposed_ to be doing.

“Come for me,” Emhyr murmured, breath ghosting over the back of Geralt’s neck, and Geralt would have given a lot to be able to ignore him, disobey him for the sake of it, but Emhyr had barely finished pronouncing the last syllable before the force of Geralt’s orgasm hit at the base of his spine. White-hot pleasure bloomed low in his gut, a broken moan escaping him as he spilled over himself, Emhyr’s hand, and the bed.

It saved his ego a little to feel Emhyr coming right after him, his hips jerking once, twice as he finished with little more than a satisfied grunt. He stilled, panting, both hands framing Geralt’s hips to keep him in place.

Geralt buried his face in the pillow underneath him and fought to catch his breath, not wanting Emhyr to realise _quite_ how wrecked he was.

Hell, maybe it would have been _worth_ offering Emhyr his undying loyalty if the sex was going to keep being this good. Geralt could absolutely have gone for being fucked like that on a regular basis.

Emhyr cleared his throat, hummed, and then finally let go of Geralt, making him wince as he pulled out and rolled to the other side of the bed.

Geralt gave himself another few seconds to recover, then pulled the blanket he’d come all over out from under Emhyr with a swift tug that barely seemed to disturb him and tossed it aside so he could collapse onto the clean sheets underneath.

A small, amused huff was the only indication Emhyr made that he’d noticed any of it.

“Well,” Geralt said, swallowing to wet his suddenly parched throat. “That was a long time coming.”

Emhyr snorted.

“Not what I meant,” Geralt responded. “Although, points for stamina. Not just anyone could outlast a witcher.”

“I am not just anyone,” Emhyr murmured. He did at least sound exhausted, which made Geralt feel better about the fact that _he_ was worn out, too.

“I know,” Geralt said. Whether or not he liked it, he had to admit that Emhyr was exceptional.

He might have been born into royalty, but he hadn’t just been handed a crown. He’d fought for everything he had.

And he had a _lot_. He had everything, practically.

Which was probably why he’d turned his mind to having a witcher, too. One of the rarest things left in the world.

And because of Ciri, Geralt was already halfway to belonging to him anyway.

Crap.

“Why me?” Geralt asked, doubting Emhyr would admit to wanting to add him to his collection of conquests, but wondering what kind of excuse he’d come up with.

“Because you are not just anyone, either,” Emhyr said.

Which was, at best, a small fraction of an answer.

But it still settled heavy in the middle of Geralt’s chest all the same.

“You must rest,” Emhyr said, rolling off the bed and leaving the space beside Geralt suddenly cold.

“Where are you going?” Geralt asked, propping himself up on one elbow.

“At the moment, to acquire some hot water,” Emhyr said. “And then I must try to catch up on the increasing pile of paperwork waiting for me.”

“ _Or_ , you could come back to bed and let Nilfgaard fend for itself for an evening.”

Emhyr looked at him as though he’d just suggested murdering half the population.

“I should have expected you to be a terrible influence.”

“So you're coming back to bed?” Geralt asked, beaming at Emhyr.

Not that he desperately wanted to sleep next to him, but… it might have been nice, and he was still a little sore and bruised from his fight earlier.

Thankfully, he only had to handle one more tomorrow.

“No,” Emhyr said after a moment. “But I will not pretend I am not tempted.”

Geralt sighed, flopping onto his back again. “Fine,” he said. “But you're wasting those few stolen moments you told me all about at the beginning of this.”

“Stolen moments for young lovers,” Emhyr said. “It would be quite a strain on the truth to call either of us young.”

Geralt opened his mouth to say _or lovers,_ but stopped himself. Somehow, he knew that would cut deep. Deeper than he wanted it to.

He didn't want to _hurt_ Emhyr.

Which seemed like an entirely new development. Geralt wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Instead, he watched Emhyr disappear from the tent and wondered where the hell they were going from here.

***

“It is an incredible and serious breach of protocol to touch the emperor without permission,” Emhyr said, unsure how else to react to the light brush of Geralt’s fingers against his back.

Dawn had broken on the final day of the tournament. Geralt's midday match--the final one for the event--would take place in a handful of hours.

Emhyr had begun to hope that Geralt would choose to forget about the events of the previous evening, the idea of having to face up to them by far the most uncomfortable option going forward.

Weakness had gotten the better of him, and now he was stuck with the consequences.

“So hang me,” Geralt murmured, and Emhyr didn't need to see his face to know the exact curve of the insufferable smirk on his face.

“It would be a flogging offence,” Emhyr said. “Based on how often you’ve allowed other competitors to hit you, I begin to suspect you’d enjoy that.”

Geralt snorted, running a fingertip along Emhyr’s spine. Even through his nightshirt, the touch seemed to burn into his skin.

The last thing Emhyr had expected was affection, and this felt suspiciously like it.

“Like to see you in my place,” Geralt murmured, sleepy and warm, perfectly comfortable, apparently, with the current situation.

“Unfortunately, _that_ would be against the rules,” Emhyr said, wondering exactly how to keep the delicate, fragile balance they seemed to have struck. If he was too aloof, Geralt would undoubtedly take it as disinterest and move on.

On the other hand, if Emhyr was even inclined toward being demonstrative, he had long forgotten how. He’d locked away the need to be liked, the need for his presence to be welcome, and certainly the need for anything like _affection_ so thoroughly that the key was lost to him.

And he would lose Geralt because of it. He would lose Geralt to himself.

Which was why admitting that he wanted anything other than Geralt’s cooperation had been a mistake.

Emhyr rolled over to face Geralt, studying him for a moment before putting his hand firmly over the brand on his chest, pushing him down into the mattress, looming over him.

Geralt accepted it all with maddening passivity, his absolute comfort with Emhyr’s presence, with his _touch_ suddenly an affront.

How _dare_ he be so comfortable with a man who had so much blood on his hands. How dare he treat Emhyr like an equal instead of a monster.

“Do you know what this means?” Emhyr growled.

Geralt shrugged. “It means I'm temporarily a var Emreis,” he said, still perfectly calm. “A member of your household. It makes us family.”

Emhyr paused, unable to think of an immediate response to that.

He had expected Geralt to object to it again, to be able to growl that this meant he _owned_ him, for the time being, even though it was not true.

He had wanted an argument. An argument _now_ , over something small, to save one later over something much larger.

To save losing Geralt entirely when he grew tired of extending faith to a man who was never going to change.

“I also think it kinda turns you on,” Geralt added, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

Still at a loss for a response, Emhyr simply frowned down at the other man. Geralt had seen through him so easily that he hadn't even realised he _was_ seeing through him.

“Which is sweet, actually. You made an honest man of me before you even considered dragging me to bed.”

“This is not a marriage,” Emhyr corrected automatically, finally remembering how to speak.

“I know,” Geralt said. “But you're taking responsibility for me, which is a big ask. And…” he trailed off.

Emhyr narrowed his eyes, wondering what the witcher had left unsaid. “And what?”

Geralt glanced away, no longer meeting Emhyr’s eyes with his strange amber gaze.

“Ciri is a var Emreis. Kinda nice to be family legally for a while. Which is, uh… what I was thinking…”

“Of asking for,” Emhyr finished for him, spreading his fingers wider so he could see more of the brand through them. Geralt would _want_ this?

“Yeah. But I'm not sure _what_ to ask for. Do I want to be a member of your house?”

“That would be up to you,” Emhyr asked. “I can… adopt you, for lack of a precise word for it in common Nord.”

“I speak Nilfgaardian,” Geralt said.

“And yet I would prefer to be as clear as possible,” Emhyr responded. “And my grasp of your language is clearer than your grasp of mine. This is no small thing you would ask. But it would give you… legitimacy. You would become a prince of Nilfgaard. Which carries very little power and a great deal of responsibility.”

“Used to that.” Geralt shrugged. “As long as they're not gonna make me emperor if you die first.”

“Your place in the line of succession would be such that should the occasion arrive, Nilfgaard would already be in shambles.”

“Comforting,” Geralt said. “And you'd still be responsible for me, right?”

“Ultimately, yes,” Emhyr said. “Until Ciri becomes the head of the family by ascending to the throne. Then _she_ will be responsible for you.”

“I'll be on my best behaviour,” Geralt promised. “You called her Ciri.”

“Where do you think the nickname came from in the first place?” Emhyr asked, all of the impulse to push Geralt away gone.

His hand shifted on the brand, the thought of making Geralt a permanent addition to his house making his stomach feel tight.

Geralt would be _his_. In the only way that really mattered.

And he planned on _asking_ for it. As a reward for his service, no less.

“But you always call her Cirilla,” he said, the full length of Ciri’s name awkward in his mouth.

“If we are to be family,” Emhyr began, “then I may speak familiarly to you.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. He, of course, had never stopped to consider what may and may not have been appropriate.

Emhyr wouldn't have had him any other way. His enjoyment of Geralt’s complete lack of concern over petty things like etiquette bordered on being a particularly unusual vice.

A slow smile spread over his face, eyes sparkling. “What else changes?”

“That would also be up to you, and dependent on the intimacy of our relationship,” Emhyr said, feeling his heartbeat speed up just a touch and hating that he couldn't control it. That Geralt would _know_ how this was affecting him.

Normally, he could sit and _look_ perfectly calm in even a state of sheer panic, but Geralt would always know.

Although, perhaps there was some merit to that. He would also never have to _ask_.

“I could go for the sex continuing,” Geralt said, covering Emhyr’s hand with his own.

“That is _not_ what I mean by intimacy,” Emhyr said. “And I am perfectly aware that you plan on asking for this to strengthen your claim on Ciri. And just a handful of days ago I would have objected.”

“Handful of days ago, I wouldn't have asked,” Geralt said softly.

The words hit Emhyr like a blow to the chest.

Had so much changed between them? Had Geralt’s opinion of him been so vastly altered in just the last few days?

Emhyr supposed it might well have been. They had never shared each other’s company for so long before, and his view of Geralt had shifted seismically.

“Do you have to think so loud?” Geralt asked, reaching up and curling his hand around the back of Emhyr’s neck, pulling him in.

A few days ago, Emhyr would have resisted.

Now, he went eagerly, allowing Geralt to control the pace, easing himself on top of the other man, breath hitching as he felt the hot length of Geralt’s cock pressing into his belly. The smallest whimper of need escaped Geralt as he sucked on Emhyr’s lower lip. They hadn’t shared a kiss like this before, nothing so passionate or honest, but Emhyr wanted more.

And he could have it, knowing now what Geralt wanted from him. He could have _this_.

Geralt parted his legs, lifting his knees up to frame Emhyr’s hips, giving the barest glimpse of just how flexible he might be. Emhyr had already imagined a thousand ways he might enjoy the witcher, and given time, he could imagine a thousand more.

“Not now,” Emhyr murmured against Geralt’s lips, pulling back with more difficulty than he expected.

“Why not?” Geralt complained, and knowing that he was disappointed flooded Emhyr’s chest with pride he’d barely realised he could feel.

A large number of people were very happy to _pretend_ to desire him, and sometimes, Emhyr let himself be fooled, but Geralt was not pretending. Geralt had genuinely wanted him, for no other reason than that he could derive pleasure from him.

The further Emhyr allowed this to go, the more dangerous it became. And yet, he could not bring himself to withdraw entirely.

“Later,” he murmured. “Finish the tournament and I will take you back to the palace and have you in my own bed, as befits my champion.”

_His_ champion.

Dangerous. Dangerous indeed.

But the thrill of it was enough to make Emhyr ignore the danger. Few things excited him like the thought of calling Geralt his.

This was weakness, he knew. Weakness that he would pay for, sooner or later.

But the sparkle in Geralt's eyes, the thought of having this impossible thing that he should never have been able to acquire, it was too much to walk away from.

Emhyr went out of his way to desire nothing so he would not feel the loss of not having it, but this, _this_ , he wanted.

Such a simple thing. The love of a common witcher. Of a man who loved so freely and easily that he undoubtedly never thought much of it at all.

“Not quite getting why we can't do this now _and_ later,” Geralt pressed.

“You were injured yesterday. I will not risk tiring you before you fight today.”

Geralt huffed, rolling his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “But I'm expecting one hell of a performance later.”

“I will endeavour to satisfy you,” Emhyr promised, forcing himself to get out of bed.

Geralt was a _terrible_ influence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't get too comfortable


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Heads up:** this chapter discusses (but does not condone) slavery, mistreatment of slaves, violence against (queer) women (not *because* they're queer, but still). It's quick and not detailed but I know it has the potential to be upsetting, let me know if you need to know which parts to skip and/or would prefer a summary of this chapter to actually reading it.
> 
> Uh also this gets intense, which is why I'm gonna publish the final chapter (in which everything is fine) immediately after I hit publish on this one.

“Master vatt'ghern.”

Geralt turned at the soft voice, surprised to find the small part-elf woman he’d fought in his first match standing behind him.

“May I have a moment?” she asked in a thick accent, every syllable halted and awkward.

“Sure.” Geralt shrugged. He’d left Emhyr with a pile of paperwork to walk out some of the tension in his muscles, anticipation of his final fight sitting heavy in his gut.

“I wanted to ask… I have heard stories. Of you.”

Geralt nodded, unsure where this was going.

“We will face each other,” she said. “I wanted to know what you will ask for.”

That was the question, wasn't it? Geralt hadn't decided yet whether he’d go through with asking to join Emhyr's house.

A large part of him wanted to. It was practical, for a start. And his heart desperately wanted to stay with Ciri.

But there was a part of him that feared being tied down. To this place. To the man he’d left in the tent.

Emhyr had shown Geralt a whole different side of himself over the last few days. The one Ciri had told him about, he thought.

And there'd always been a thread. A connection between them that neither of them had ever succeeded in breaking.

They worked together. Geralt could feel in his bones that they’d fallen into an easy rhythm with each other, one that could continue forever as long as they both wanted it to.

The sex had been great, too. Geralt was looking forward to a repeat performance later.

But he still wasn't _sure_.

“I haven't quite decided yet,” Geralt said honestly.

“Then I will ask… I _would_ ask… my beloved is a slave.”

“And you want to free them?”

The woman nodded.

“She is beaten. Threatened with death.” She bit her lip, eyes shining with tears. “I fear I will lose her.”

For a long moment, Geralt just looked her. Looked at this small, determined woman who’d bitten and scratched and fought with such desperation because she was trying to save someone she loved.

And realised that he was going to help. Because that was what he _did_.

“I know I cannot win,” she continued. “I am hurt. You recover quickly.”

Geralt sighed.

Emhyr had said this was why people competed.

“Come with me,” Geralt said. “I need you to talk to someone.”

The woman’s eyes widened.

“It's okay. I want to help,” Geralt said. “What's your name?”

“Ylva,” the woman responded, still unsure.

“Come on.” Geralt nodded in the direction of the tent. “Trust me.”

Ylva nodded, gesturing for Geralt to go ahead.

He led the way back to his and Emhyr's tent, showing Ylva inside.

She squeaked the moment she noticed Emhyr, sweeping into a deep bow and staying there.

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose.

“If Geralt has brought you here then he must have very good reason,” Emhyr said in Nilfgaardian, which Geralt suspected would make Ylva’s life much easier. “And unlike yourself, I do not bite.”

Ylva glanced up, a blush colouring her high cheekbones. “Your majesty,” she said, then looked away again.

Geralt wondered if Emhyr actually _liked_ being treated like this and came to the conclusion that no one could enjoy this. Not even Emhyr.

He understood the fear, but what the hell did anyone think Emhyr was going to do if they didn't bow quite low enough? He had a petty streak, but he was too self-assured to be _that_ petty.

“Ylva’s lover is a slave,” Geralt explained. “She’s competing to free her.”

Emhyr's attention turned to Geralt immediately. “I believe I told you this was common.”

“Right,” Geralt said. “She’s injured.”

“People are often injured in this tournament,” Emhyr said. “Perhaps you could come to the point.”

“I want to yield the match to her,” Geralt said.

“No,” Emhyr responded without a moment’s hesitation.

Geralt frowned at him. “No discussion, just _no_?”

“It would do her no good for you to yield,” Emhyr said. “You would still come out ahead. She requires a minimum of five points to beat you, the maximum available in a single match. She would need to gain points for first blood as well.”

“Fine. So we'll do that,” Geralt said.

“ _No_ ,” Emhyr repeated, more firmly this time. “I am inclined to indulge you in many things, but not in this. You are not to throw the match.”

“You can't _stop_ me,” Geralt said.

“Leave us,” Emhyr said, glancing at Ylva.

She scurried off so quickly that Geralt worried he’d never see her again.

Emhyr was silent for a few moments, eventually sitting back in his chair and sighing. “The softness of your heart is an admirable quality in all situations besides this one,” he said, almost kindly.

“And for the record,” he added. “I _can_ stop you. You cannot yield yourself. Only I can make that decision. I will _not_ take the risk that this is not a ploy.”

“It's not,” Geralt said, frustration creeping into his voice.

“How do you know?” Emhyr asked. And he asked it so reasonably, as though he was just waiting for Geralt to offer some kind of evidence.

Evidence Geralt didn't _have_.

“I just _know_. Witcher's intuition. We can tell when people are lying.”

“And yet people frequently lie to your face and you believe them,” Emhyr said.

Which was true.

Anger welled up in Geralt's chest. He knew Emhyr was just being _reasonable_ , but damn if he wasn't also being frustrating.

Geralt wanted to save someone. Emhyr wanted to do the smart thing and stay out of it.

“A compromise,” Emhyr began. “Give an earnest performance in the match. Win the tournament. Ask, as you intend, to join my house. When all that is over, if Ylva proves to be honest, then I will make enquiries about purchasing her lover and setting her free.”

“How do you know they don't work at the palace?” Geralt asked.

“I do not employ slaves,” Emhyr said, his nose wrinkling just a touch. “I cannot ban the practice without facing the prospect of immediate revolt, but I can set an example.”

Oh.

Another thing Geralt hadn't known about Emhyr.

“But you can't force them to sell,” Geralt said.

“No,” Emhyr agreed. “I cannot. And I could not make it known that I was the one asking, either, so my voice would carry no weight. There is a risk in my plan as well, but I would argue that it carries _less_ of one than yours.”

“People kill slaves.”

“They are not supposed to,” Emhyr said. “It is quite illegal.”

“Not quite as illegal as killing a free man though, is it?”

“No,” Emhyr admitted, his gaze falling for a moment. “Flogging rather than hanging. And rarely pursued. The kind of man who can afford to kill a slave intentionally is also the kind of man who can afford to evade justice.”

“So on the one hand: someone could die. On the other hand, I take a loss. I've taken one of those already and our last match was close, anyway.”

“Firstly, you cannot save _everyone_ ,” Emhyr said.

“No, but I can save this one person. And sometimes that's gotta be enough.”

“ _Secondly_ ,” Emhyr continued, his voice barely a hair louder. “While you may be convinced of your new friend’s motives, _I_ am not. I have innumerable enemies, Geralt. There could be any number of schemes connected to this. Or have you forgotten why you're here in the first place?”

“To protect Ciri,” Geralt says. “I know, I've been doing it longer than you have.”

He knew, as soon as the words escaped him, that it was the wrong thing to say.

“Yes,” Emhyr said, his voice ice. “Because you are in the habit of asking too much of me, and I am in the habit of giving it to you anyway because in almost all things, I have _trusted_ you. I trust you as I trust no one else.”

Geralt swallowed.

So now there was _doing the right thing_ or _respecting Emhyr’s loyalty_.

An impossible decision. Made more impossible still by the fact that Geralt was starting to fall for him.

Even now, when he was being difficult. He was doing it for the right reasons. From his perspective, _this_ was the greater good. Protecting Ciri from any threat, real or imagined.

Geralt knew Ciri well enough to know she’d have no trouble protecting herself, but even he could see other ways winning this tournament and the rewards that came with it could be used against her or Emhyr.

But he believed Ylva. He believed that, if he didn't do this, he would he responsible for her lover’s death.

Dammit.

“Why not trust me now?” Geralt asked, desperate.

“Because my objectivity regarding you is compromised and I cannot afford to be wrong.”

That was enough to stun Geralt into silence.

He knew what it meant. What it meant for _Emhyr_ to say that.

Part of him wanted to believe that Emhyr was lying. That he was just saying what he thought would get Geralt to cooperate.

But that wasn't it.

Geralt knew what he was giving up if he lost. Emhyr would have no excuse to extend the privilege of an official family tie to him unless it was an earned favour.

He’d been excited about the prospect. He’d _wanted_ that, maybe more than Geralt did.

He didn't have anyone. It made sense that he would have been looking forward to having more family. Someone he could trust.

And Geralt was about to break that trust, because it just wasn't as important as an innocent life.

He should have known it wasn't going to be as easy as just _winning a tournament_. It never was.

***

Emhyr realised he had been betrayed the moment he saw blood streaming down Geralt’s chin, his lip split.

The flag for first blood was raised on Ylva’s side of the field.

Physical pain hit Emhyr in the stomach, the knowledge that Geralt had taken the side of a complete stranger over his enough to make him feel ill.

He had been prepared to give so much of himself to this man.

Geralt made a show of fighting back--a wide, swinging blow that even an elderly blind man could have dodged, so far beneath his skill level as to be laughable.

Emhyr looked away. If Geralt thought he could force his hand, he would learn differently now. Emhyr knew he would recover from any injuries.

Unless Ylva could knock him out, he would eventually have to fight back.

The sound of a body hitting the ground caught Emhyr's attention again, and he looked over to see Geralt face-down in the dirt, moaning.

Struggling to turn over.

Blood was trickling from just below the back of his neck.

Emhyr's stomach dropped.

Geralt couldn't pick himself up. He was struggling, trying to force his body to cooperate, but the force and precision of the blow had rendered his shoulders useless. If he had been hit there with a dagger rather than an empty fist, he would have died instantly.

Had he planned this? Or was Ylva, as Emhyr had suspected, taking advantage of his good nature?

But then, if Geralt _died_ , he would win.

So perhaps the point had been to knock him out, and the blow had missed. Higher, and it would have accomplished that.

Yes, Emhyr thought.

A miss. They’d conspired over the best way to ensure Geralt would pass out with minimal risk, but Ylva had missed.

And now she circled, unsure what to do with a clearly-injured witcher and a crowd watching her. She did not wish to kill him, Emhyr could see--and it would do her no good to do so, either, since Geralt would still win if he died.

Geralt struggled again to rise, a pained sound escaping the back of this throat.

Watching it made something in the depths of Emhyr’s chest hurt, but looking away again would have been impossible.

Apparently coming to a decision, Ylva kicked Geralt hard in the side, the force of it flipping him over onto his back.

Even at the distance he was standing, Emhyr heard the sickening crack of bones breaking. The quarter-elf--Emhyr had checked--was stronger than she seemed, but inexperienced with it.

She fought with great ferocity and limited technical skill, and Geralt’s kindness had just broken his ribs.

_He will heal_ , Emhyr thought. He would heal. Emhyr had seen it with his own eyes.

Blood spilled from Geralt’s mouth as he coughed.

Emhyr’s pulse pounded in his ears as he watched on as impassively as possible. It wouldn’t serve him to panic.

Ylva dropped her weight onto Geralt’s chest before he could recover, making him cough again, blood and spit spraying into the air.

Not a serious injury, Emhyr told himself. If it was serious, Geralt would not be so passive.

_But would he?_ a tiny, traitorous voice asked in the back of Emhyr’s mind.

An unusually hard to kill human, Geralt had said. Trained to take a great deal of punishment without backing down.

But at what cost? How badly _could_ Geralt be injured before he stopped fighting?

And would those injuries cost him his life later?

Emhyr had seen him bloodied and bruised before, but something about either his unwillingness or inability to struggle made this vastly more uncomfortable.

This was Geralt’s choice, he reminded himself. He had been offered an alternative. He knew Emhyr had outright refused to go along with yielding the match.

He could bear the consequences of this decision like anyone else. Geralt was more than old enough to understand the concept of responsibility.

Ylva’s hand closed around Geralt’s throat.

Creeping dread settled cold in the pit of Emhyr’s belly.

Geralt would not pass out before he died. Emhyr had watched him breathe through having his throat very nearly crushed. Witchers were _different_.

It made sense that maintaining consciousness would be important to them. More important than not dying. A witcher who at least took out the monster they were fighting with them would still fulfil their purpose. Every second counted.

Or so Emhyr could surmise, now that he was finally thinking about what a witcher really _was_. A protector of the innocent. Against monsters.

And in this moment, Emhyr wondered if he was the monster Geralt was fighting. If, perhaps, he was about to be the monster who killed him.

He should have pushed for more information about Geralt’s limits when he had the chance. Then he would _know_. He could assure himself that he was not condemning Geralt to death through inaction.

He could assure himself that Geralt was flailing weakly for show, and not because he couldn’t muster a stronger blow.

He could assure himself that not all was lost.

***

The worst part, Geralt thought, was that Emhyr had been _right_.

Not about Ylsa. They’d agreed to the blow to the back of the neck, but it’d missed, and now Geralt could barely move his arms because of the way it'd landed.

No, he’d been right about Geralt's command of Nilfgaardian. He knew the moment Ylsa hit him that he hadn't been clear enough.

There hadn't been a backup plan, because there hadn't been time.

And now Ylsa had Geralt pinned to the ground, her hand closing around Geralt's throat and tears in her eyes.

She was murmuring something in Nilfgaardian that Geralt no longer had the brain power to even _try_ to understand.

Right when he needed Emhyr’s help, he’d acted so he was least likely to get it. He wasn't counting on being forgiven for this unless he _did_ die.

Even then, Emhyr was famous for holding grudges well after the offender was dead.

Geralt gathered his strength and flailed his mostly-useless arm toward her, desperate to communicate that he was unlikely to pass out like this. He’d die first. Witchers didn't work like humans.

With his ribs broken, the movement made tears spring up in his eyes, his body protesting, hurt just badly enough that it was screaming at him to get the hell out, to surrender.

And Geralt still didn't want to _hurt_ Ylva, even though she'd hurt him, because he’d been desperate, too. He’d lost people he would have died to save. He knew exactly how she felt.

Time seemed to have slowed to a near-stop in Geralt’s world, seconds ticking by as though they were years. He tried kicking up with his legs, but a sharp stab of pain where she'd kicked him made him stop.

The sense of something _giving_ internally made Geralt's heartbeat speed up. His lungs tightened, and he suddenly couldn’t catch his breath.

_Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic_.

Half of his training had been about not panicking when you got hurt. About how to take a blow and come back from it.

He was going to die. Not because of the hand around his throat, no, but because one of his broken ribs had just pierced a lung. It’d never happened before, but he _knew_ now that it had.

He coughed, and the taste of blood spilled over his tongue.

Coughing up blood was never a good sign.

There was no way out of this.

At least he probably _would_ pass out before he died now.

At least this wasn't all for nothing.

Darkness clouded his vision, spots closing in as his tired, bruised, already injured body started to give up. He’d had a good run.

No witcher died in their bed, and he’d never even _wanted_ to.

This was fine. It was fine.

***

“ _I yield._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just hit the 'next chapter' button, everything will be fine!!


	7. Chapter 7

Geralt woke to a soft mattress and equally soft sheets and wondered if maybe his doubts about an afterlife for witchers had been unfounded after all.

Then he noticed two things--Ciri, asleep on the other side of the bed, and the pain in his side.

Breathing was hard.

And his last memory was of Emhyr’s voice. Yielding.

Geralt swallowed.

“You're awake,” Ciri sat up with a start. “I'm sorry, I dozed off. We weren't sure you’d… I didn't want you to be alone if…”

“That bad, huh?” Geralt asked, forcing himself to manage a smile for Ciri’s sake.

Ciri nodded. There were dark circles under her eyes, tension making her pretty face look drawn and old.

“No one was sure what to do for you,” she said. “I felt like I should have known, but…”

“You're not a healer,” Geralt said softly. “It's okay. Whatever was done clearly worked.”

“We eventually decided… Emhyr eventually decided that you should be bandaged and left to heal on your own.”

Geralt winced at the mention of Emhyr.

“How mad is he?” Geralt asked.

“On a scale of one to ten? Twelve,” Ciri said.

Geralt snorted, and then immediately regretted it, a spike of pain hitting him in the side. He groaned, barely stopping himself from putting his hand there, which he knew would only make it worse. “Don't make me laugh. How long was I out?”

“Three days,” Ciri said.

“Explains why my mouth is so dry.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Ciri said, scrambling out of the bed and pouring water for Geralt, pressing the cup into his hand.

“That wasn't a hint,” Geralt said, pausing to drink greedily from the cup.

He winced as he swallowed, and had to gasp for breath after, which made him wince all over again.

“What happened to Ylva?” Geralt asked.

“The woman you fought? Her lover was freed, as promised. Though as Morvran tells it, from the look on Emhyr’s face it’s a surprise she wasn't executed instead.”

“That's just his face,” Geralt said, though he knew that wasn't true.

“That was what I said,” Ciri smiled wryly.

“And what did Morvran say to that?” Geralt asked.

“There was a very confused few moments of trying to decide whether to tell me I should show more respect to my father or whether his best bet for prince-consort was to agree with me, even though he didn't really agree.”

“Nilfgaardian doesn't even have a word for _joke_ ,” Geralt said.

“It does,” Ciri corrected.

“That _was_ a joke,” Geralt said, a twinge of something in the centre of his chest this time, instead of his lungs.

“Oh.” Ciri blushed. “I've been spending too much time with them.”

“Could always spend a little more with me,” Geralt said, and the relief of knowing he hadn't lost Ciri, at least, finally washed over him, easing some of the tension he’d been holding.

“Geralt…” Ciri hesitated, and then reached out to take Geralt's hand. “He was devastated. Even after he knew you’d live. You threw that match, didn't you? For Ylva.”

Geralt nodded. There was no point in lying to Ciri. “Maybe don't say it so loud.”

“We're alone,” Ciri said. “But point taken. You and he… you… grew close, didn't you?”

Geralt wet his lips. “You _did_ tell me to try and get along.”

“I didn't mean you had to sleep with him.” Ciri sighed. “Though I suppose I should have known better.”

“You're not mad?” Geralt asked.

“No. No, of course not. You're both arguably adults,” Ciri said. “But he is.”

“Yeah,” Geralt responded. “Surprised he didn't leave me to die.”

“He sat with you for the first two days,” Ciri said. “Completely silent the entire time except to greet me or tell me I should get some rest. He didn't leave until one of the healers swore on their own life that you’d wake.”

Geralt went to whistle, but stopped himself at the last moment, realising it wouldn’t help pain-wise.

That was… a lot.

“He’s never going to speak to me again,” Geralt said, sure this was true.

“You betrayed him,” Ciri said, holding a hand up to stop Geralt from interrupting. “Regardless of your reasons, he sees it that way. He trusted you, and you acted against his wishes. Against your _agreement_. I know why you did it. I'm even proud of you. But you must understand that my father trusts no one, and for good reason.”

Geralt vaguely remembered what Emhyr had said about Mererid, the person who had the most access to him. Who Emhyr would _need_ to trust.

Who he’d chosen because he was a terrible liar.

So yeah, he didn't trust anyone.

Except Geralt.

Who’d broken that trust.

Geralt would have been mad, too.

“I'll…” Geralt trailed off. He wasn't sure what he’d do.

“You'll rest,” Ciri said. “Save your strength. No one’s throwing you out of the palace while I'm the crown princess.”

“Crown princess,” Geralt repeated, testing how the words felt in his mouth.

“It sounds strange to me, too,” she said. “Have you seen that awful portrait father keeps of me?”

Geralt laughed again, and then regretted it again, gasping for breath as a new wave of pain rolled through him.

“I'm sorry,” Ciri said, looking down at the floor. “I'm just trying to cheer you up.”

“I don't mind. You’d think someone could give me a painkiller, though.”

“They were afraid of giving you too much,” Ciri said. “I tried to tell them, but…”

“Yeah, not surprised they didn't listen.” Geralt sighed. “Thanks for sitting with me, but you look like you could use a nap.”

As if reminded of how tired she was, Ciri yawned.

“Could you eat? I can have something sent to you.”

Geralt's stomach growled at the mention of food.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Ciri said, reaching out to squeeze Geralt’s hand. “Rest.”

“I will,” Geralt said. “Doubt I could go far like this, anyway.”

“I'll come see you when I wake,” she promised, then turned and walked away, pausing to speak to an attendant on the way out.

Geralt's stomach sank.

Now that he _hadn't_ died, he’d eventually have to face Emhyr over this.

***

After spending a full day getting absolutely nothing worthwhile done, Emhyr penned a stern letter to the man who had been keeping Ylva’s lover thanking him for his cooperation and subtly recounting the laws regarding the fair and humane treatment of slaves.

With the general implication that given the opportunity, Emhyr would see him hanged.

He read it a handful of times, decided it was both clear and subtle enough, and set it aside to be taken to him at some later point.

Geralt had woken, he knew.

It took a surprising amount of willpower not to go and see him. Despite the anger, despite the twisting knot in the pit of Emhyr's stomach over having been betrayed.

Despite the guilt that Geralt had come much, much closer to death than he’d realised.

Whenever Emhyr let his mind wander, he saw Geralt going entirely still again. Felt a wave of cold fear wash over him, sending an involuntary shudder down his spine.

The same heart-in-throat feeling that he could recall only a small handful of times in his entire life.

Uncomfortable, as a word, did not have nearly the required gravity to cover everything Emhyr felt. Nor did any _other_ word in his extensive, multi-language vocabulary.

A knock on the door pulled Emhyr from his thoughts. He glared at it for a moment, unhappy about the interruption.

“Come,” he said, leaving the _this had better be damned important_ unspoken.

Ciri slipped into his office silently, walking with infinite grace toward the desk, and in that moment, everything about her shone with Geralt’s influence.

The easy way she carried herself. The lightness of her step.

Her complete comfort with saying exactly what she thought to the Emperor of the North and South, with no fear that there might be consequences to her bluntness.

There weren't, of course. There never had been for Geralt, either.

“He’s awake,” she said without preamble.

“I am aware,” Emhyr said.

“He’s sorry,” Ciri offered.

“He is not,” Emhyr responded. “And I do not expect him to be. He would not be the man he is if he apologised for following his own moral code.”

Ciri pursed her lips.

That, at least, was something she’d inherited from her mother. And her grandmother.

Formidable women, both of them.

She was fortunate to have enjoyed the influence of so many people who had useful things to teach.

“He’ll never be sorry for that,” Ciri said. “But he _is_ sorry that doing it hurt you.”

Emhyr gritted his teeth.

“Then he shall have to tell me so himself,” he said, feigning interest in the stack of papers in front of him. “Are you quite done pleading his case, or was there something else?”

“I wanted to make sure you ate,” Ciri said.

Something inside Emhyr gave way at the sound of his daughter’s softly-spoken concern.

He met her gaze for the first time since she’d come into the room, irrationally afraid that he would see Geralt staring back at him.

He didn't. He saw the crown princess of Nilfgaard, his daughter, with dark circles under her eyes and her teeth digging into her bottom lip nervously.

A habit, Emhyr mused, that she may well have inherited from _him_. It had taken years to train himself out of doing it.

“You are exhausted,” he said, finally softening his tone. Ciri now had _two_ belligerent parents to care for at once, and while she had faced burdens much greater, Emhyr still had no desire to burden her further.

“I'll sleep when I've seen you eat,” Ciri said.

Emhyr considered for a moment. He was not hungry, but he was also aware that he hadn't eaten for three days. He would have to do so, sooner or later.

Perhaps Ciri’s company would make it easier.

“You are a better and more considerate person than I could ever have hoped you’d become,” Emhyr said honestly.

He was just beginning to learn the value of honesty with people he cared about. Geralt was nothing if not brutally honest.

Ciri was the same.

And they were, as always, thick as thieves. Emhyr was the one on the outside.

He had come to the conclusion already that this situation was not the fault of anyone in particular, merely an effect of two very different personalities clashing.

And despite being on the outside, Ciri was trying to draw him in.

The ache that had all but left his chest flared up again, the loss of what he’d imagined having with her and Geralt hurting anew.

And yet he could not pretend that he didn't know Geralt regretted it, as well.

Ciri offered him a small, tired smile, and her arm. “Come with me,” she said. “If you die from starvation, they'll make me empress, and I'm not ready.”

At that, Emhyr actually managed to laugh. It was a small, startled thing, but it was there. It was _something_.

He rose from his desk and crossed to Ciri, taking her arm with the tiniest flutter in his chest. She rarely extended him such affection, and he had been afraid that she would not forgive him for not withdrawing Geralt earlier.

Knowing he hadn't lost everything was as much comfort as Emhyr ever dared to hope for.

“Might I ask a favour?” Emhyr began as Ciri led him out of his office, her other hand alighting gently on his arm.

“Of course,” she responded without a moment's hesitation.

“If I provide a list of books from the library, would you bring them to him? Personally.”

“Consider it done,” Ciri said.

“Thank you.” Emhyr swallowed as subtly as he could around a lump in his throat.

That would have to do.

***

Geralt got through three of the books Ciri had brought him before he realised that Emhyr had chosen them.

He stared, transfixed, at the page of a book concerning the cultivation of archespores and possible medicinal uses.

Well, less at the page, and more at the drawing in the margins of an archespore eating someone.

A drawing Geralt knew, without question, Emhyr had drawn.

He’d said once that they’d probably shared some bedtime reading, and he was right. Half the books he’d been sent were familiar.

This one was a Nilfgaardian text, by a palace herbalist. Probably the only one of its kind.

And a young Emhyr had drawn in it.

All of a sudden, the weight of everything he’d lost came crashing down on Geralt. The sting of tears in his eyes surprised him, and he cleared his throat to force them back despite being completely alone.

He traced the ancient ink, amazed that it’d survived all this time--but then, of course it had. Who’d care about raising archespores?

Other than Emhyr, who’d obviously been reading it out of sheer, boundless curiosity.

Ciri had been like that. Curious about everything. Remembered every word of every book she’d ever read.

And once upon a time, Emhyr was a little boy who’d been the same. And he _wasn’t_ that little boy anymore, but Geralt wasn’t stupid, either.

Emhyr was trying to show him more of himself. The way they’d started opening up to each other during the tournament.

This was a peace offering.

The next time Ciri came to visit him, he handed her a note for Emhyr.

“I told him I’d ask him about any Nilfgaardian words I was having trouble with,” Geralt explained when Ciri raised an eyebrow.

“But this says--”

Geralt raised his own eyebrow, stopping her in her tracks.

“Oh. Oh, _of course_ ,” she said, looking down at the note and then folding it in two. “I’ll give it to him over dinner.”

“Perfect,” Geralt said. “No rush.”

He could be patient if he had to be.

***

“He said he’d promised to come to you with any words in Nilfgaardian he was struggling with,” Ciri said, pressing the note into Emhyr’s hand.

It took him a long moment to decipher Geralt’s untidy scrawl.

“Oh.”

 _Sorry_.

A short note, but to the point.

Not the _right_ word of apology for such a situation, but he understood the meaning well enough. Anyone would have.

“I see,” Emhyr said, re-folding the note and tucking it into his robe.

“Did you want to send a note back?” Ciri asked. “I was planning on going to see him after dinner.”

Emhyr considered a moment, coming to what he knew was the only appropriate decision after a long pause.

“It is time I saw him myself,” he said. “Might I ask that you delay your visit until the morning?”

Ciri nodded, and _smiled_ at him, and that was just enough to give Emhyr hope that he was on the right track. If Ciri approved, and she was so much like Geralt, then perhaps Geralt would also feel this was the appropriate response.

“I think he'll be happy to see you,” Ciri said earnestly. “If you're worried.”

“I do not worry,” Emhyr lied.

Based on the smirk his daughter gave in response, she had begun to see through him.

A problem for another day, Emhyr decided.

For now, he had a witcher to speak to.

***

Geralt beamed broadly when he heard the doors open, anticipating Ciri’s arrival. He was excited to tell her that he’d done a few laps of the room today before he’d needed to sit down again.

His stomach dropped as he realised it was Emhyr instead.

Holding the note he’d been given.

“You have used the wrong tense,” Emhyr said. “This word asks forgiveness for future behaviour, not past.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Did you really come here to correct my grammar?” he asked.

Though he wouldn't have been completely surprised if Emhyr had.

“No,” Emhyr said. “No, I did not. I came to give you this.”

He took something out of an interior pocket, waiting for Geralt’s hand to place it in.

Geralt held it out, curiosity and dread tangling in his gut. He half-expected it to be an order of banishment from Nilfgaard.

Instead, it turned out to be a signet ring.

Confused, Geralt brought it closer to his face to examine it, finding a small imperial sun framed by two swords on the face.

He looked up at Emhyr, waiting for an explanation.

“By rights, you became a member of my house the moment I accepted your claim on my daughter,” he said. “When I was unsure whether you would ever wake, I had this made and the paperwork prepared. Had you died, I would have buried you with it.”

Geralt looked back at the ring.

Two swords.

Because he was a witcher. Right.

And the symbol of Emhyr’s house. It was the right of the emperor to use the sun, obviously.

“It is yours,” Emhyr said. “You have more than earned it.”

Geralt opened his mouth to protest that he _hadn't_ earned it, that he’d ultimately lost, that he’d broken Emhyr’s trust, but Emhyr raised a hand to silence him and then sat down on the bed beside him so gently that the mattress barely moved.

“Do you accept?” Emhyr asked.

Geralt swallowed, and then nodded. Tears welled up in his eyes again, the thought of really, _officially_ being a part of Ciri’s family making his heart feel too.big for his chest.

It shouldn't have mattered, not really. They’d been family for a long time, and nothing could ever change that.

But this meant something, too. This meant other people couldn't deny it.

“Good,” Emhyr said. “Then I may speak frankly to you, since we are kin.”

Uh oh.

“You have forgiven me for a great many evils,” Emhyr said. “And so I will extend you the same courtesy.”

Oh.

“Furthermore,” Emhyr continued. “I must apologise for not stepping in sooner. I allowed my anger to get the better of me. I hope you can forgive _me_ for this one last sin against you.”

Geralt shrugged. “I've had worse. You weren't the one hitting me. Hell, _I_ was the one letting it happen. And I shouldn't have. I should have trusted you to help me.”

“You had very little reason to do so. Trusting me is almost always a mistake,” Emhyr said wryly. “But I would change that, and I would start with you and Ciri. I would _earn_ your trust.”

Geralt turned the ring over in his hand. “This goes a long way,” he said honestly.

He didn't want to fight with Emhyr anymore. He wanted to go back to the easy way they’d been letting each other in.

And they'd _both_ been stubborn pains in the ass over this. That was the thing.

From each of their perspectives, they’d done the right thing. Emhyr had been trying to protect his family over all else, Geralt had been trying to save an innocent life.

Neither of those things were bad.

And the two of them were just both too bull-headed to back down.

Ultimately, Emhyr had. And he’d done it to save Geralt's life.

Geralt could back down, too.

Just this once.

“I wasn't certain you’d accept it,” Emhyr said. “You will always be tied to Ciri, whatever may happen. But this ties you to _me_ , as well.”

Geralt shrugged. “Before the worst in both of us came out, I was getting to know a man I could have called a friend,” he said. “I don't have so many friends that I can let one fight get in the way of keeping them.”

“Friend,” Emhyr said, pronouncing the word very carefully. He hummed, and then nodded.

“Work for you?” Geralt asked, amused.

“I'm not sure anyone has ever called me a friend,” he said. “It may take some getting used to.”

“Well, we've got time,” Geralt said. “I'm not going anywhere for another few weeks at least.”

Something that might almost have been guilt washed over Emhyr’s features.

“Did this to myself,” Geralt reminded him. “Had worse for less. Small price to really piss you off.”

Emhyr snorted. “Ah, yes. And you do so enjoy that.”

“So do you,” Geralt said, letting his eyes fall closed with a smile.

“I will leave you to rest,” Emhyr said, moving to stand.

Geralt reached out, laying his hand on Emhyr’s arm before he could move it. “Plenty of space here,” he said, nodding to the remainder of the bed when Emhyr looked at him.

“You would want…” Emhyr began, looking between Geralt and the empty space beside him.

“If you’re not in a hurry to be somewhere else,” Geralt said. “Yeah. I keep missing you when you’re not there.”

“I will not always be able to come to your bed,” Emhyr responded, as though that’d be some kind of dealbreaker.

Geralt shrugged. “I don’t mind coming to yours instead.”

And he knew that wasn’t quite what Emhyr meant, but the deliberate misunderstanding made the briefest flash of wonder light up Emhyr’s features, so Geralt really didn’t mind sounding like an idiot.

Emhyr huffed, and then walked around the bed to climb in on the other side, still wary of jostling the mattress. “I see that you plan to remain as difficult as ever,” he said, settling down just close enough for Geralt to reach out and touch if he wanted to, but not so close as to crowd him.

“You wouldn’t be interested if I was anything short of impossible,” Geralt said.

“Just as well for you that you _are,_ then,” Emhyr murmured, shifting just a little to make himself comfortable.

Within moments, Emhyr was asleep.

Geralt looked over at him--the worried lines finally fading from his face, his hand lying between them as though he’d wanted to reach out and touch but hadn’t quite been sure that was a good idea--and something warm and soft settled into place in his chest.

He looked at the ring again, then set it down on the table next to his bed.

Maybe they were both a little impossible.

But both of them had managed the impossible before, so maybe that was okay.

***

It took Emhyr three days to determine that kissing Geralt would not be unwelcome, and he only figured it out in the end because Geralt had grabbed the collar of his robe and pulled him in, their mouths crashing together with more force than feeling.

But once _that_ kiss was out of the way, and Emhyr knew he could, another was impossible to resist. And then another.

Now, they lay on their sides together in Geralt’s bed, sharing innumerable exploratory kisses, feeling out the edges of this wonderful new thing blossoming between them.

A thing Emhyr had never expected to have, and was, privately, quite overwhelmed by the thought of.

But grateful. Grateful that they had come to this point. That Geralt had accepted his shortcomings, his misdeeds, and more importantly, his apologies.

Emhyr knew he was holding a precious, delicate thing in the palm of his hand, all too easy to crush. But worth protecting, all the same. He would not have another chance to have this. He would never find it again.

Geralt gasped as Emhyr’s hand trailed down his side--pain, not pleasure--and Emhyr stopped dead, backing off.

“I’m okay,” Geralt said, reeling Emhyr back in and soothing his concerns with lips and tongue, thrusting deep into Emhyr’s mouth, a clear demand for more spoken without the need for words.

The longer they spent together, the less of those they needed.

Emhyr moved his hand, letting it rest on Geralt’s flank instead, a thrill of arousal running through him at the touch of the witcher’s bare skin, the long, ancient scar that followed the shape of the muscle.

His blood heated at the thought of having Geralt’s thighs around his waist one day, when he was entirely recovered, moaning and begging and _wanting_ , under him. Under his body and his touch and his attention.

The incredible intimacy of feeling Geralt’s cock pressed against his belly, hard and wanting, left Emhyr gasping for breath. His hand found the witcher’s erection, curling around it, stroking with all the urgency and need he felt at finally, _finally_ having Geralt as his own.

By full and informed consent, by _choice_ , even when he knew the worst of Emhyr.

Geralt had chosen him not for his power or position, but because they were in every way that mattered a match for one another.

Perhaps it was strange to be so intensely aroused by that thought, but Emhyr had never pretended to be anything other than strange. Geralt was his equal in that, too. Unusual even for what they were, both of them.

Geralt moaned beautifully as Emhyr stroked him, his eyes closed and his breath coming in harsh pants, hitching here and there, undoubtedly with the slightest edge of pain.

All the same, Emhyr could feel Geralt’s cock leaking in his hand, precome spreading down the length, pain obviously not a hindrance to pleasure. Indeed, Emhyr was beginning to think that if anything, it was spurring Geralt on.

Perhaps that was something worth exploring at some later point.

Emhyr watched Geralt’s face, the way he couldn’t even begin to hide his pleasure, teeth biting deep into his lower lip as he held back a moan, eyes glazed and dark, the barest ring of amber around nearly-round pupils, blown wide with lust.

He pressed a kiss to Geralt’s cheek and then leaned his own against it, listening closely to every cut-off sound, every desperate breath, the beat of Geralt’s heart just barely audible under everything else, his own speeding up to match it.

Geralt was close, the effect of injury, painkillers, and perhaps even the tension that had been hanging between them these past few days as Emhyr tried to work out how much he was allowed to touch without actually having to ask getting the better of him. He would not last for nearly as long, but Emhyr didn’t need him to.

He merely needed this one last act to be sure of Geralt, to know that all was well between them again.

His heart needed the witcher to come in his hand.

Geralt’s hips jerked, a wince of pain forcing him to stop, but telling Emhyr that he was now right on the edge, waiting for the barest nudge over it. He shifted his grip, thumbing the head of Geralt’s cock firmly, knowing exactly how he wanted to make the witcher come.

“You,” he murmured in Geralt’s ear. “Are mine.”

A final hitch of Geralt’s breath was all the warning he gave before he came, a long, needy moan tearing free of his throat as he spilled between them, all over Emhyr’s hand as he had so desperately wanted.

Despite the fact that his own cock was throbbing between his legs, the warm, comforting weight of satisfaction settled heavily in Emhyr’s chest. He could wait. It would be all the sweeter _for_ the wait.

And Geralt’s reaction to his words had told him everything he needed to know.

Geralt _was_ his. Not wholly his, not his without condition, not something any man could ever _own_. But his all the same.

And that, Emhyr had decided, was enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming along for yet another self-indulgent ride!! <3


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